A Life of Suicide
by JustSmileJoker
Summary: The scenes that take place off screen, before the Suicide Squad gathers. A series of one-shots that show how each character came to join the Suicide Squad.
1. Chapter 1 - Introducing Harley Quinn

**A/N: I ju** **st watched Suicide Squad, and on the whole, I loved the story and the possibilities that the characters pose. But I feel that certain scenes were missing which would have added to the character development. So I felt compelled to write a few of the missing scenes that happened off screen. The first few chapters are going to be little character introductions, starting off with the fun-loving Harley Quinn. This is my first FanFic, and I don't have a beta, so any help/criticism would be awesome!**

 **The first scene takes place when Harley first meets the Joker at Arkham Asylum, and he asks for a stuffed kitten, which she gives him in the movie. The second scene takes place on "Date Night", right before she's captured by Batman.**

 **All characters belong to DC Comics and David Ayer.**

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CHAPTER 1 - INTRODUCING HARLEY QUINN

Dr. Quinzel nervously tucked a loose strand of hair behind one ear. She carefully inspected her reflection in the two-way mirror situated across the room. She had insisted on borrowing a white lab coat from one of the doctors, convincing them that this particular patient wouldn't take well to being treated by an intern. Dark shadows stood out under her eyes from the hours she spent last night reading and re-reading the patient's file. She had found herself drowning in the words, unable to escape from the insights into the patient's psyche. It had taken her two months of pleading with the doctors who were mentoring her before she had been handed this case file, and another few weeks before they had granted her an interview with the patient.

The first time she had seen him had been an accident. She had heard about him before: from whispered rumours and newspaper articles. But she had never seen him. Since his incarceration, they'd been keeping his location under wraps, and the man himself in isolation. It had been an accident. One that changed her entire life. She had been escorting a schizophrenic patient to his cell when they had passed in the hallway.

Dr. Quinzel didn't notice the tousled green hair or the manacles wrapped around his wrists and ankles or the dirty straight jacket. She didn't notice the wary way the guards on either side held him, as if afraid to stand too close. What Dr. Quinzel saw was the way he walked down the corridor as though he ruled the asylum, as though the guards at his side were his personal entourage. She saw the gleam in his eyes that bespoke intelligence far greater than anyone she had ever met. She saw something else there, quietly hidden. Something she never expected to see in this man: pain. His soul was in pain. Dr. Quinzel found herself pulled towards him by some unspoken chemistry, and when his eyes met hers, her skin tingled with anticipation. She found herself frozen in place, fear and some other unidentifiable emotion washing over her. The patient passed, and Dr. Quinzel was finally able to catch her breath.

And so, Dr. Quinzel found herself sitting on a thin plastic chair, waiting for the Joker to arrive. She took a quick swig from the coffee cup in front of her and checked her bun in the mirror one last time as the door swung open. Dr. Quinzel kept her eyes locked on the case file in front of her as the patient sat down across the table. For a moment, she was afraid to look up, afraid that she'd see the psychotic killer that she'd read about rather than the intelligent man she'd seen in that chance encounter.

"Dr. Harleen Quinzel." His voice had an odd drawl to it, the edges tinged with barely contained madness. "What do I owe the pleasure?"

Dr. Quinzel's eyes rose, following the straight jacket up past the metal teeth to his brilliant blue eyes. The Joker's head was cocked, his eyes open and intense. She could see the emotions whirling behind them. For the first time in her life, Dr. Quinzel felt like she could see into someone else's soul, without it being hidden by schemes or manipulation. She could see every emotion written in this man's eyes, even if she didn't understand them.

"I…um…" she stuttered. "Mr. J, I'll be your psychiatrist for the next little while. It is my understanding that you weren't getting very far with your past therapists. Perhaps you could tell me why?"

He chuckled, an eerie series of breaths that lasted just a little too long. "For starters, they weren't anywhere near as delicious as you. Just look at that creamy skin of yours…mmmhmm…"

Dr. Quinzel adjusted her glasses, conscious of the heat rising to her cheeks. "I have the notes from your past sessions, but I thought it'd be best if we got to know each other a little first."

The Joker blinked sleepily, boredom seeping onto his face.

"Please, Mr. J. I know it must be hard for you to believe, but I do want to help you. I know you're in pain. Please, just let me help. Could you tell me a story from your past? Something…nice. Something that makes you smile when you think of it?"

She could see the cogs whirring behind his eyes as he thought through her words.

"What makes the Joker smile?" He leaned forward and Dr. Quinzel found herself scooting closer in response.

"Carnage," he whispered, a manic grin spreading across his face. "Blood, misery, chaos, toys."

"Toys?"

"A kitten." He chuckled in that eerie way again that sent shivers down Dr. Quinzel's spine. "A little stuffed kitten."

Dr. Quinzel couldn't help but let a smile tug at the corner of her lips as she imagined a little boy with green hair sitting on the floor of his mother's parlour, playing with a cute stuffed kitten.

"Perhaps you could fetch it for me?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

"I know how the foot-in-the-door technique works, Mr. J. I am a psychiatrist, after all." Dr. Quinzel sighed, a small breath leaving her lips. "But I might just be able to get that for you. Something to help keep you smiling through the pain."

* * *

 **MONTHS LATER**

Harley Quinn swung the baseball bat and it landed on the man's arm, crushing bone. Her pigtails bounced happily as the man screamed in pain.

"My Puddin' doesn't like being short changed, y'know."

She swung the bat again, smashing the man's fingers as he reached for the gun lying nearby. He moaned and rolled over, blood dripping from his mouth and nose. Harley leaned gracefully over him, bright teeth shining in the moonlight coming in through the warehouse windows. She placed the baseball bat under the man's chin.

"Tonight's date night," she said. "It takes me a while to get ready and I don't have much time left."

Harley added pressure to the bat, pressing down on the man's neck. He muttered something, coughing up blood.

"What? Didn't hear that."

Tears mixed with blood as the man spluttered, his fingers twitching weakly. "It's by the waterfront, on the east side. I swear."

"Now that wasn't so hard." Harley turned, pivoting lithely in her stilettos.

The man let out a ragged, relieved breath. Harley paused, one hand resting on her hip. Then she whipped around, the baseball bat striking against the man's already broken arm. His scream echoed through the warehouse.

"Come on," Harley Quinn giggled. "Just smile through the pain."


	2. Chapter 2 - Introducing El Diablo

**A/N: thanks for RubiksCube92, gabbtgrl246 and raviolation for reviewing!**

 **This chapter introduces El Diablo, who is one the characters with the most untapped potential, in my opinion. They don't really cover how he got his powers or why he's apparently hosting a God/demon thing, so I thought I'd address that.**

 **The first scene shows how he got his sizzling meta-human powers. Parts of the second scene are actually shown in the movie to demonstrate El Diablos devastating abilities.**

 **Edit: a guest review mentioned that in Suicide Squad, it's cannon that El Diablo had his powers his entire life. However, in every other universe, he got the powers transferred to him by Mr. Lane, and I find that story more compelling and I think it explains his personality more accurately. So I stuck with the non-cannon version of him being given his powers, rather than being born with them.**

 **All characters belong to DC Comics and David Ayer.**

 **Enjoy!**

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CHAPTER 2 - INTRODUCING EL DIABLO

Chato could feel the blood leaking from his back, the hot liquid sticky against his skin. He was lying face down, gravel digging into his chest. Gun shots shook the air and bullets rained around him. He could barely breathe and the pain in his chest grew sharper with each passing second. Pain radiated across his body, until he couldn't even feel the dirty alleyway beneath him. Chato's vision blurred, but he could still hear his men scream and fall around him, desperately firing at the armoured cops surrounding them.

They'd been caught in a sting. Someone had ratted them out, and the moment Chato found out who, he was going to burn the man alive. Or shoot him in the chest. Let the rat feel the excruciating pain he was enduring now.

"Well, look what we got here."

It took him a moment to realize that the gunfire had ceased. The voice was tinny and distorted to his ears, but he would recognize it anywhere. A boot snuck under him and kicked him over, turning him on his back. Red flashed across his vision as pain racked his body. When his vision cleared, Sergeant Abano was staring down at him, hefting a LAPD rifle at his face.

"Chato Santana." He grinned. "Pieces of gang shit like you don't deserve to live. I should just leave you here to rot like you've done with everyone you've killed." Sergeant Abano pressed his rifle against Chato's temple. "How many men have you held a gun against and known that you were going to be the last thing they ever saw, huh?"

Chato's fingers twitched, inching towards a fallen gun. Sergeant Abano pressed his foot against Chato's wound and he bellowed in pain. It hurt beyond all belief.

The Sergeant leaned so close that Chato could feel hot breath waft across his face. "What if this is the last thing _you_ see, huh? A dirty alleyway covered with your own blood. But, unlike you scum; I'm one of the good guys. So you're getting taken to a hospital and getting the best health care the federal system can provide, then I'm dumping your ass behind bars, Santana."

With the last of his strength, Chato spat into the cop's face.

"Oh, you son of a –"

The rifle butt made contact with Chato's face, and everything went black.

When he woke up, his head was groggy. He could hear quiet muttering from the guard standing in the doorway, flirting with a pretty nurse. The hospital sheet felt itchy against his skin, but when he tried to remove it, he found that his wrists were handcuffed to the bed rails. His chest still hurt, but it was more of a deep ache than the debilitating pain he remembered.

The cop noticed he was awake and sauntered over. "Looks like you've got yourself your first cellie." He gestured over to the only other bed in the room, where a man lay unmoving.

Chato ignored him, staring up at the whitewashed ceiling. Every time he closed his eyes, he could still see Sergeant Abano's face taunting him.

Through his thoughts, he heard the nurse whisper to the guard. "Poor Mr. Lane. He's been in a coma since before I started working here. None of the doctors can figure out what's causing it."

The guard scoffed, "I wouldn't be too worried about him, honey. From those face tattoos; I'd guess he was part of some street gang. Probably had it coming."

That got Chato's attention. He twisted, trying to get a better look at the comatose man. He was pale, his white skin sickly. A respirator covered him mouth, but Chato could see dark tattoos through the fogged mouth piece. Black circles covered his eyes, and dark ink etched into the side of his head and along his jaw made him look oddly like a skull. If Chato squinted, he could see teeth drawn along his mouth and over his top lip. Below it, he could almost make out a word, but it was obscured by the respirator. The man wore a hospital gown, but Chato would bet that there were many more tattoos inked beneath it. But he didn't recognize the man. The tattoos were distinct enough that he would have remembered them.

After a while, Chato got bored and gazed back up at the ceiling. He listened to the quiet beep of the heart monitor and the guard's occasional cough. His old lady would be waiting for him at home. She had been planning on making meatloaf for dinner. Their little boy would be watching TV right about now. His baby girl was just learning to crawl.

Chato turned his head away from the guard, refusing to let anyone see the tears escape from the corner of his eye. He'd fought with his old lady before he'd left that morning. She hadn't wanted him to leave; demanded he spend the day with her and the kids. He'd snapped then. There had been yelling. A few broken dishes.

The frantic beeping of the heart monitor interrupted his thoughts. It had risen in pitch and was spiking faster than normal. Suddenly, the monitor flat lined. Nurses rushed in, pushing the guard aside as they hurried to the man's bedside. They surrounded him, and for a moment Chato lost sight of the man as they started chest compressions. The group of lab-coats readjusted and began doing something with a tube, removing his respirator. The comatose man's head slumped towards Chato and he saw his face clearly for the first time. The word DIABLO was inked along his jaw.

Suddenly, the man's eyes snapped open. They were pure black. The eyes of the devil. Chato choked, his neck strangled by an invisible hand. Pain seared along his arms and chest, like a thousand needles were being stuck into his skin. His arms jerked as thick black ink appeared, transforming into skulls that writhed along his arms. Despite the pain, Chato felt frozen in place, eyes locked with the devil man. The blackness in the man's eyes began to fade and so did the tattoos along his face, dissipating into nothing. The pain reached Chato's neck. Countless invisible needles pricked his face and liquid blackness seeped over his vision.

A sudden heat exploded from his chest, and Chato screamed, unable to contain the pain. His insides were being incinerated. Undecipherable words of an ancient language flashed in front of his eyes as his mind was filled with knowledge that he couldn't comprehend. Just as quickly as it arrived, it disappeared, leaving nothing but the intense heat inside his chest. Leaving nothing but the burning need for vengeance. A cruel laugh echoed through the recesses of his mind. That was the last thing Chato heard before he was released into blissful nothingness.

* * *

 **SEVERAL WEEKS LATER**

El Diablo jerked up off of his bed, almost hitting his head on the bunk above. His cellmate still slept soundly, so El Diablo sunk his head into his hands, letting the mask he'd worn these past few weeks fall from his face.

The devil inside him was getting stronger. He could feel its presence flaring to life inside his heart even now; it's demands for vengeance - for chaos - constant. The dreams were getting worse too. Every night, he'd fall into a fitful sleep where the faces of all the men who'd wronged him would dance before his eyes. They were burning in his dreams, their screams mixing with the crackling flames to create a symphony of pain.

El Diablo didn't know if the dreams were his own creation or the devils. He was finding it hard to separate the two. It was beginning to feel like the devil had always been a part of him.

He flexed his arms, watching the tattoos wave over his muscles. The tattoos were a permanent reminder of the comatose man, of the fact that he had not always been called a Devil by the men in his cell block.

He felt a sudden flare in his chest and his skin burned. Great, writhing flames exploded from his hands and shot across the cell, crashing against the wall, greedily licking at the metal. The fire surged through his veins, and for a moment, El Diablo was certain that flames were going to leak from every inch of his skin.

As if to counter that thought, the flames slowly died, receding back into his palms. El Diablo clenched his fists and the flames disappeared. All that was left was an ashy imprint on the wall, where the flames had warped and melted the metal.

"Dude, what the hell?" His cellmate was staring down at him, disbelief in his eyes.

El Diablo shook his head. All he knew was that the devil was demanding to be released.

By the time the inmates were sent out into the yard, the story that El Diablo had tried to melt his way through a wall was on everyone's lips. Most didn't believe it, but there was something about his tattoos that kept people from bringing it up in his presence. Some were certain they'd even seen them waver slightly on his skin, as though they were alive.

El Diablo sat himself down on the bleachers at one end of the yard. The other inmates were giving him a wider berth than usual, but he didn't mind. He could still feel the heat under his skin and his mind was working overtime, trying to understand what had happened.

El Diablo was so busy thinking that he didn't notice the dark-skinned man stealthily pull a shiv form his boot and plunge it into the neck of nearby inmate. Shouts filled the yard and El Diablo suddenly found himself surrounded by brawling men. He jumped from the bleachers, his blood singing. The screams ignited the devil, and he could feel the flames dancing under his skin, demanding release. This time, El Diablo pushed the power out.

A ring of fire exploded from him, incinerating everything it touched. The earth surrounding him was instantly burned black. Whatever was left of the fighting men was littered along the ground, tendrils of smoke rising from the ash. The air blistered with heat, and El Diablo found himself laughing. Gloves of flame surrounded his hands and with a flick of his wrist, a fiery crown appeared above his head.

Every camera in the yard swivelled towards him, and El Diablo pointed up at one.

"What's up?" He yelled. "Hey, you want some of this?"

His laughter filled the yard.


	3. Chapter 3 - Introducing Killer Croc

**A/N: Oh boy. I really had to use my imagination with this one. We know just about zero when it comes to Killer Croc's backstory in Suicide Squad. For this reason, this story is a lot longer than my other ones, because I felt like I needed to get more descriptive and cover more time for you guys to really understand his character. All we really know is that he's a possible cannibal, likes being in water, and is beautiful. Throughout the movie, he didn't speak much and really just seemed to be following the rest of the group around.** **So I thought that I'd go into some of his history and why he's the way he is.**

 **All characters belong to DC Comics and David Ayer.**

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CHAPTER 3 - INTRODUCING KILLER CROC

Waylon Jones only came out at night. At sixteen, he was already hitting seven feet and showed no sign of slowing. Muscles rippled along his arms and chest despite the fact that he only ate food scavenged off the streets. But the most alarming thing about Waylon Jones was his skin. Thick green and grey flecks dotted every inch of him, giving him the odd scaly look of a reptile.

But the true reason he only went out at night was that he hated the screams of everyone who saw him. He hated the way their eyes would follow him, shock and disgust mingling on their faces. It made anger blossom and writhe in his chest, festering into a deep hatred.

The sun was setting over the city when Waylon crawled out of the sewers he had made his home. A tattered sweater disguised his arms and face despite the hot Florida weather. His brown eyes flickered left and right, his sensitive hearing picking up the quiet thrum of traffic several streets down.

Waylon maneuvered through the alleyways, ducking into the shadows whenever anyone ventured near. He followed the smell of rotting food, his senses leading him to a large dump behind a fast food restaurant. A young man dressed in the bright colours of the restaurant's logo was pouring some sort of sticky grease out over the dump. Waylon knew better than to interrupt the boy. Last time the boy had screamed and thrown the pot of grease on him. It'd taken a swim in the ocean to get that stink out of his scales.

The boy finished and scurried back into the restaurant. Waylon was about to step out from the shadows, but quiet scuffling along the alleyway made him pause. Whispered voices reached his ears and Waylon crouched down, receding back into the shadows.

A group of street kids wandered down the alleyway, kicking debris as they went. They walked with the wary step ingrained into those who had to fight for food and shelter. They were all painfully thin. One of them, a boy with a shock of black hair, stood in the center of the group. Waylon recognized the leader – they'd encountered one another before. A quiet growl escaped Waylon's lips, but it was enough for the group to notice him. They span, disgust instantly appearing on their faces.

A girl dressed as a boy spat on the ground. "Ew, it's the crocodile."

Waylon inched farther back. He could smell the hunger on them. The leader pushed his way forward and looked down at Waylon with narrowed eyes.

"You want some food, crocodile?"

Waylon nodded warily, baring his teeth in what one could assume was a smile.

The boy smiled back, then kicked Waylon full in the face. He fell back, more from surprise than anything else. The boy stood over him and Waylon cringed at the hatred that burned in the boy's eyes.

"These streets belong to us, you freak. You belong in a cage. I don't want to see you around here ever again!"

The boy stamped down on Waylon's chest. The others joined him and Waylon closed his eyes. He barely felt the kicks, but with each yell of "freak" and "monster", the heat built behind his eyes.

In one surging movement, Waylon jumped to his feet, sending the kids sprawling along the ground. As he towered over them, they whimpered and began backing away. Several tried to grab some food as they ran.

It was those ones that Waylon got to first. He ripped them limb from limb, bones snapping under his monstrous strength. Screams filled the alleyway. Waylon's mind went blank. He barely felt the kids fighting back, his teeth and hands wrecking destruction on anyone who stood in his way. The screams were replaced by pained whimpers.

Waylon didn't stop until he was the only one left standing. His ragged breath resounded eerily through the now quiet alleyway. He quickly scavenged through the dumpster, grabbing a half-eaten burger as sirens echoed down a nearby street. Someone must have heard the screams and called the police.

Tires screeched and doors slammed. The police were getting closer. Waylon ran down the street, the burger still clutched in her hand. His long stride carried him through the maze of alleyways and the cop's shouts got further and further away. He scooted around a corner and banged into a couple, knocking them to the ground. The sirens came from every direction, confusing his senses.

Waylon ran down the main street, but the police were closing in. A car suddenly pulled in front of him, its siren blaring. He swivelled around, running back the way he came. The couple he'd pushed over were getting to their feet, eyes wide.

"You can hide out here." The boy gestured through a doorway.

Waylon paused but there wasn't any other option. He ducked through the doorway, tugging his hood lower. The boy leaned against its side, pulling the girl up next to him so that they concealed Waylon's considerable bulk. The police jogged past, but one paused, staring down the boy who had hidden Waylon.

"We heard a disruption a few streets down. We're looking for someone…well, you wouldn't believe what he looks like. The kids call him 'crocodile'. You know anything about that?" The cop tried to peer around the boy, but he casually drew the cop's attention with a wave of his hand.

"I wouldn't know a thing. But," he leaned in conspiratorially, "I could give you some inside information about the goings on at the Inn tonight."

The cop chuckled, "You know I'm not into that sort of thing, Jack."

They shook hands and something slipped from the cops hand into the boys. The cop left with a wink. The boy – Jack – moved so that Waylon could venture out of the doorway. He was young, perhaps a few years older than Waylon himself. He had a strong jaw and dark sharp eyes that didn't quite smile when his mouth did. The girl at his side was petite, her face hidden behind long bangs.

Jack gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, then released her. "Go home, Mary. I'll talk to you later."

The girl gave a little nod and scampered off, giving Waylon a quick glance over her shoulder.

With the girl gone, the boy's eyes raked over Waylon's body, taking in his bulk and muscles. "I have an offer for you. If you're willing to work, I can give you a place to sleep. And food too. Come with me and I can show you around, get some more of those burgers." He eyed the one in Waylon's hand. "Ones that don't come from a dumpster."

Waylon agreed, desperate to be taken away from the police who would be scouring the area looking for him.

Jack led him to a small bar. A flickering sign proclaimed it The Inn. A closed sign hung in the door, but Jack opened it anyway, waving Waylon through. The inside was dingy, the few chairs covered with dark stains. Dusty bottles were behind the bar, catching the light from the single window so that the liquid within glittered oddly. It didn't look like anyone had set foot inside the bar in years.

Waylon watched cautiously as Jack stepped behind the bar. He ignored the bottles of liquor and the dirt-streaked glasses. He reached down and heaved open a giant trap door that was hidden behind the bar. Stairs led down into the darkness. The scent of human sweat wafted up from the hole.

Jack started descending the stairs, motioning for Waylon to follow. Waylon looked around at the dark cheerless bar, then he followed the boy down into the darkness.

Waylon's eyes quickly adjusted to the lack of light as they walked down a damp tunnel. At the end of the tunnel was a heavy metal door. Jack pushed it open with a grunt and the sounds of excited yells bombarded their ears. They stepped through the door and found themselves in a large circular room beneath the city. Electrical lights hung from the ceiling, sending shafts of bright colour through the smoke-filled room. Sweaty men sat in descending rows that went up to the walls of the room. Many stood and yelled, their voices encouraging the two men who were fighting in the center of the room. The fight took place on a raised platform, thin metal fencing separating them from the screaming audience.

The fight ended with a loud crack as one man fell, his leg bent oddly. Thunderous yells exploded through the cavernous room as men booed or clapped loudly, money changing hands. Eventually the noise died down as the injured man was carried away. The men returned to their seats, drinks appearing in their hands. Some tossed their arms around painted women, who were sitting primly next to them.

"Come on. Up here." Jack led Waylon between several rows of men, who grunted at the disturbance, but mostly ignored them.

A row at the top was empty, save for a single man who sat in the middle, a thick cigar dangling from his lips. Unlike everyone else, he wasn't watching the fighters. Sharp eyes took in the audience, a thin smile running along his lips as he watched barmaids serve drinks to the betting men.

Jack stopped at the edge of the row, Waylon standing hesitantly behind him. The man waved and they approached.

"Father, Captain Montague wants to place a bet tonight. Also, I think I just found our next big winner." Jack stood to the side so that he could see Waylon clearly.

The man tore his gaze away from the audience and inspected Waylon with shrewd eyes. "We have many large men – larger than him," he said dismissively.

"Pull back your hood," Jack ordered Waylon.

"What?" Waylon's deep voice was horse, the thick smoke choking his lungs.

"Just do it."

Waylon glanced around, but none of the audience was looking up at them. Their eyes were fixed on the next fight that was already taking place in the cage. Slowly, Waylon removed his hood, revealing his features to the dim light. The older man's eyes widened as he took in the thick scales and pointed teeth. Greed flickered in his eyes, and for the first time, Waylon had the man's full attention.

"What's your name?"

Jack answered, "He's called the crocodile."

Waylon stiffened at his words, but Jack took no notice. The man, however, blatantly ignored his son, eyes focused solely on Waylon.

"Uh…Waylon Jones."

"Can you fight, Waylon Jones?"

Waylon glanced down at the cage where two large men wrestled, their skin glistening with sweat. "Yes, I can."

The man tapped his nose musingly with the cigar. "Waylon Jones – The Killer Crocodile. Yes, I think that will work." He waved the cigar at his son. "Take him to an empty room. Feed him. I want him ready for tomorrow night's fight."

Jack nodded and led Waylon away.

* * *

Several weeks later, Waylon was sitting on the first bed he had ever considered his own. His breathing was harsh, his muscles screaming with exhaustion. This last fight had done him in. Carefully, he unwrapped the cloth he had tied around his knuckles and forearms. Spots of his scales were discoloured, in what he had come to recognize as bruising. Despite his thick scales, the bruises felt tender. He would need to ask Jack or his father for a break. For the past week, they'd been having him fight every night. New men kept appearing, hearing the rumours of the Killer Crocodile, and wanting to prove their strength. Not a single one of them had bested him.

Waylon pulled a bucket of chilled water from underneath his bed. Rocks sat at the bottom. Waylon didn't sweat, and the only way to cool himself down was to put cold rocks on his skin.

After placing the rocks, Waylon pulled a file from underneath his pillow and began sharpening his nails. He had taken up the practice at the suggestion of Jack's father. His bruises twinged with each movement.

"Hello, bright eyes."

Waylon jumped, startled. It was a testament to his exhaustion that he hadn't sensed the small girl standing in his doorway, since she exuded a faint scent of strawberries. The girl had full lips and dark blue eyes that were partially hidden behind brown bangs. With an ease that surprised Waylon, the girl entered the room and crouched down in front of him. In a whirl of movement, she took the file from Waylon's fingers and began sharpening his nails for him. He froze, astonished into inaction. The girl tenderly held his hand, using the file with cultivated skill. Waylon wasn't used to being touched in such a careful manner, as though he were breakable.

"My name's Marybelle. You actually ran into me a few weeks ago. I was with Jack."

Waylon grunted. He remembered that first encounter and had noticed her around the Inn recently. The girl continued her chore, the quiet scraping the only sound in the room.

After a while, she spoke again. "Do you know why you look the way you do?"

Waylon stiffened, but the girl didn't look up, focused on her task. She was biting her lower lip in concentration.

"No," he finally answered.

"I did some research." The girl blew gently on his nails. "I think you have some combination of regressive atavism and epidermolytic hyperkeratosis." She caught Waylon's confused look and chuckled quietly. "I don't really know what it means either. The best I could understand is that these," she gently squeezed his hand, "are caused by your genes. It's just a genetic mutation you were born with. We barely use most of our genes, they're full of junk DNA. But some prehistoric part of your genes got turned on."

Waylon didn't respond. He only partially understood what the girl had said.

Marybelle had finished sharpening his nails and was now inspecting the scales on his hands. "I like how every scale has a little black dot right in the center."

Waylon's brain finally got a grasp on what the girl had been talking about. "You don't think I'm human."

It wasn't a question, but Marybelle answered anyway. "Of course I do."

"Why?"

She gave him an odd look, as though he were a little slow. "Your eyes, of course. You have such beautiful bright eyes."

Waylon grunted again. He didn't know what his eyes looked like. He couldn't remember the last time he had looked in a mirror.

"What are you fighting for?"

Waylon shifted, uncomfortable at the concern that shone in the girl's eyes. She was simply holding his hand now, but Waylon didn't feel the need to pull away.

"Nothing. I'm not fighting for anything."

The girl looked confused. "But, then what motivates you to fight? What motivates you to _live_?"

Waylon refused to catch her eye. He looked down at their interlocked hands. His scaly and monstrous, hers smooth and pale. A thin silver band was around her index finger.

"Nothing," he repeated.

Marybelle pulled her hand from his, her face suddenly white with anger. "You don't want to live?"

"I…" Waylon stuttered. "What good is living when I look like this?"

The girl abruptly stood, her eyes unusually bright. Her lips were tight, holding back tears. She threw the file onto the bed next to Waylon and stomped out. Waylon didn't move for a few minutes, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

The scent of her tears still lingered in the room.

* * *

Waylon kept an eye out for Marybelle over the next few days. He didn't know why, but he'd find himself whipping around at the sight of dark hair. Every time it wasn't Marybelle. And every time, Waylon felt an odd pain in his chest that had nothing to do with his bruises.

Waylon even considered asking Jack about why Marybelle wasn't hanging around the Inn anymore, but decided against it. Jack had been given the responsibility of arranging the fights and Waylon didn't want to piss him off.

More time passed and Waylon began giving up hope of ever seeing Marybelle again. So he was completely astonished when her head popped into his room one late evening. He was preparing for bed when the smell of strawberries filled his room and he looked over to see her in his doorway, an apologetic smile on her lips.

"Hello, bright eyes. Can you swim?"

Waylon nodded, unsure if he ought to apologize for upsetting her last time they had talked.

"Oh good. I need your help."

She started walking away from Waylon's room and he had to run to catch up to her. They walked side by side through the underground tunnels beneath the Inn in silence. Marybelle led Waylon through a tunnel he didn't recognize which came up a few streets away from the Inn. Waylon paused at the exit. He hadn't left the Inn since joining the roster as a fighter.

Marybelle stepped out in front of him. "Come on."

With a sigh, Waylon followed her out onto the street.

Dusk was settling over the city. Marybelle walked quickly through the winding alleyways until they came out at the edge of a river. A long bridge crossed over the water, several couples strolling along it. The river bisected the city, separating the more affluent areas from the alleyways that Waylon knew. The last rays of sun sent speckles of light flickering off the rushing water, giving the air an odd glistening quality.

The shadows grew longer and the moon appeared out on the edge of the horizon. The people returned to the other side of the river, leaving the bridge empty. Waylon expected Marybelle to lead him out onto the bridge, but instead, she scooted down to the river's edge.

Marybelle pulled off her shoes and dangled her feet in the river, letting the cool water run over her toes. Waylon sat cross-legged next to her. The cool breeze felt good against his face, his lungs enjoying the fresh air.

Marybelle flicked her feet, sending water droplets flying through the air. "I thought you'd enjoy getting out."

Waylon nodded. "You need my help?"

"Nothing gets past you, huh? I lost my ring." She lifted a bare hand.

Waylon looked out over the water. "It's in the river?"

"Yes."

"How did it end up there?"

Marybelle blushed, a slight pink tinging her cheeks. "I threw it in. I was angry."

"At who?"

She shrugged. "The world, I guess."

Waylon nodded. He knew what that felt like.

Marybelle jumped, startled, when Waylon pulled off his shirt and slipped silently into the water. He immediately disappeared under the waves and Marybelle found herself wondering at how comfortable Waylon seemed submerged in the water.

She felt a tickling on the bottoms of her feet and pulled them up with a shriek. Waylon popped out of the water where her feet had been, an impish grin spread across his face. Marybelle laughed and kicked water at him, sticking her tongue out.

Waylon pulled himself out of the water, droplets running down his scales. He took a hold of Marybelle's wrist and lifted her hand, palm up. He dropped the ring into it.

"Oh," Marybelle sighed with relief. "Thank you."

She slipped the ring on, twisting it so that a small design Waylon hadn't noticed before caught his eye. There was a pale yellow ribbon in the center of the silver band.

"It was my mother's. The hospital gave it to her when she became a survivor of bone cancer. It came back a few months later, though." She paused. "Did you know cancer runs in families? It's all about a person's genes. Whether they have the cancer gene or not."

Waylon grunted, uncertain of why she was telling him this.

"I'm sorry I snapped at you last time." She peeked up at him from behind her bangs. "It's just...Not everybody has the chance to live their life, but you do. Use that. Do something with it. It doesn't even matter what you do, just live."

"You have the chance to live too," Waylon said.

For a moment, he thought Marybelle was going to cry. But she didn't. Instead, she smiled sadly up at the moon.

"No, I don't." With a hesitant hand, Marybelle gave one tug at her hair, and the wig fell off her head. "I have cancer. It's malignant. The doctors say I only have a few weeks left, if that."

Waylon looked down at the thin girl at his side. Without her hair in the way, he could see clearly into her eyes.

She is so beautiful, he thought. And it was breaking his heart.

Waylon carefully took her hand in his, giving it a little squeeze. Marybelle leaned against him, shivering against his wet scales.

"Thanks for helping me, bright eyes."


	4. Chapter 4 - Introducing Katana

**A/N: Hey guys...So I've been AWOL for a few months. Mostly because school started, then exams decided to sneak up on me. But, I'm back now that exams are over! *happy dance***

 **Katana has a pretty in-depth backstory from the comics, but absolutely none in Suicide Squad. I tried to follow some of the comics timeline, but probably strayed from it, considered I'm not that familiar with it.**

 **Also, if the conversations in this chapter seem a little formal or stilted, it's because I'm only familiar with very rudimentary Japanese, which is unbearably formal.**

 **All rights belong to David Ayer and DC Comics.**

* * *

Chapter 4 – Introducing Katana

Maseo was remembering. He remembered how his older brother would gently hold his hand and take him for a walk whenever their parents would argue. He remembered the way his wife's eyes shone with unshed tears when she walked down the aisle. He remembered the joy he felt when he discovered that she was pregnant, and his astonishment when it turned out to be twins.

But the memories were fuzzy and oddly distorted. Maseo clung to them with desperation, but they were becoming more slippery and confused. Memories that weren't his were mixing in with them, faces and voices that he didn't recognize entering his mind.

Maseo knew where the unknown memories were coming from – the other souls trapped in Soultaker with him. Their consciousnesses were rubbing against each other, memories shared between them. But Maseo tried to ignore the other souls. There was only one thing that he was interested in – the voice of his wife.

Her voice would occasionally boom throughout Soultaker. The memories of his wife were slowly fading, but whenever he heard her voice, the memories would come flooding back. The feeling of her lips against his, her dark eyes, her skilled hands. But whenever her voice receded, the memories would fade.

And he was left listening to the sound of screaming souls.

* * *

The first time Maseo had seen Tatsu, he was going for a run through the countryside with his brother. The fall wind had shaken the trees that grew along the pathway, sending bright leaves fluttering through the air. The brothers' hair was windswept and their cheeks pink with exertion. Takeo grumbled as the path turned upwards, winding up towards the top of the mountain.

It had taken Maseo a good hour to convince his brother to go running. Takeo preferred lifting weights at the gym, but Maseo liked running. He loved feeling the pavement pounding beneath his feet and the wind whipping across his face. It felt like being free.

The two brothers ran up the hill, their breath creating trails of fog in the crisp fall air. On the top of the hill sat a temple, its tall roof just visible above the trees. The brothers followed the path up and around the temple. Its burnished roof and bright red pillars shone in the sunlight. Wooden floors had been swept carefully and washed so that they sparkled. A few priests tended to the rock garden or sat in quiet contemplation. None of them registered Takeo and Maseo as they ran past.

They circled around a corner of the temple and the quiet swishing of cloth came to their ears. A woman stood on the porch, a wooden sword held loosely in her hands. Thick black hair was plaited down her back. She was wrapped in an autumn red shirt and a black hakuma fell down to her feet, which shuffled quietly across the porch. The woman's eyes were closed.

Maseo paused, slowing to a walk.

The woman took one slow breath, then began to move. To Maseo, it looked like dancing. Her feet created complex patterns on the wood, her sword cleaving through the air. The woman moved with such deadly grace that Maseo felt his breath leave him. Her movements revealed a beauty and precision that he had never seen before.

The woman twisted the sword above her head and brought it down with a final definite motion. She exhaled and opened her eyes, noticing Maseo and Takeo for the first time. Her eyes crinkled as she smiled. She waved them over, sliding her sword into a loop on her hakuma.

Maseo walked up to her and bowed low. "I am Maseo Yamashiro."

The girl lowered her head. "Tatsu Toro."

Maseo realized that Takeo wasn't at his side, so he glanced over his shoulder. Takeo was still standing in the middle of the path, staring transfixed at Tatsu.

* * *

Their twin children were born several years into their marriage. Two beautiful girls: Yuki and Reiko. Soon they were crawling and Maseo teased Tatsu that she'd finally be able to teach them to art of sword fighting, so that they could carry on her family's tradition. Tatsu had laughed at that, but he could see the yearning in her eyes to see their daughters wielding swords. She was already letting them play in the dojo and watch whenever she taught martial art lessons to the men who traveled across Japan to learn from her.

Their daughters had been playing in the dojo under the watchful eye of their nursemaid when a servant informed Maseo that he had a visitor. Maseo went out to the porch, where he laughed loudly and hugged his brother, who stood awkwardly on the pathway.

Maseo pulled away, clapping his brother soundly on the shoulder. "Takeo, it's been so long! Please, come in. Make yourself at home."

Maseo lead Takeo through their home and into the sitting room, where cushions sat around a long wooden table. Several ornate bowls decorated the tables, along with an expensive Chinese vase filled with blooming sakura blossoms. Maseo and Takeo sat down across from each other. Maseo ordered several plates of delicacies from a nearby servant, but when they arrived, Takeo refused to touch them.

Now that they were sitting, Maseo could inspect his brother. They had barely spoken these past few years. Maseo had been busy with Tatsu and the kids, and Takeo had disappeared, doing who knows what. Tattoos now ran down Takeo's arms, and Maseo could see a few creeping up his neck above the collar of his shirt. Dark rings stood out under his eyes, and the muscles under his shirt were more defined than Maseo remembered. He wasn't the youthful young man that Maseo remembered. His brother had grown up. Maseo wondered idly if he looked different to his brother after all these years.

Takeo sat formally across from him, but his arms were tense and Maseo guessed that he was clenching his fists beneath the table. His brother had never been very good at hiding his emotions.

Finally, Takeo spoke. "We must have words, brother. It's been many years, but I've finally come to realize that you have stolen something from me. Something that is rightfully mine."

Maseo was astonished. "Brother, I do not know what you think it is that I have stolen from you, but please, speak its name and I shall have it delivered to you immediately."

A muscle ticked in Takeo's cheek. "Tatsu. Tatsu Toro."

As Takeo's words sunk it, Maseo sputtered. "What…surely I misheard…"

"You did not mishear. Tatsu Toro is rightfully mine, and I am here to collect."

"Takeo, she is my _wife._ "

Takeo sprang to his feet, startling Maseo with the viciousness of the action. He paced along back and forth through the room, barely looking at Maseo.

He muttered, almost as though he'd forgotten Maseo was in the room with him. "She should never have married you. It was our families that pushed you two together. She never really loved you. Her heart always belonged to me!"

At that, Maseo stood stiffly, his voice brimming with withheld anger. "That's enough, Takeo. Tatsu is not, and never was, yours to claim. Leave now, before you say something else you'll regret."

Takeo sneered at his brother's words, a grimace that marred his good looks. "Something I'll regret? You think I haven't regretted these past years, watching the two of you being happy together? Watching her have your children? Watching you live the life that should have belonged to me?"

Maseo's dark eyes caught and pinned his brother's frenzied ones. "You are no longer welcome in this house. Until you return and apologize for your words, you shall not step another foot into this household."

For a moment, Takeo's eyes seemed to shimmer with remorse, and he opened his mouth to speak. But instead, he snapped his jaw shut, his teeth grinding together. Under his brother's stern gaze, he stalked out of the room.

He took one last look at Maseo, then slammed the door behind him, letting his final words hang in the air.

"I will have what's mine."

* * *

It was dark when the assassin snuck quietly across the well-tended garden. He had bribed the servants who watched the house that night so that they would abandon their posts. Several yakuza members surrounded the Yamashiro property, standing sentinel.

The assassin slunk through the corridors, bearing a long silver scar that stretched across his jaw, giving him a permanent sneer. A sword pressed gently against his hip with each step. Its scabbard was without ornament, unobtrusively plain, but still it emanated an indescribable power that made anyone in its presence shiver and whisper a blessing to protect their souls. The assassin loved his sword. It had been a gift from his boss when he entered into the Yakuza, and with it at his side, nobody dared to disobey him. He passed an open window and a shaft of moonlight hit the sword, revealing a series of kanji etched into the side. Soultaker, they read.

The assassin opened each door as he came upon them. But he didn't find his quarry until he reached the end of the corridor. The door slid open with a quiet swish. Lying on the tatami was Maseo, his breathing deep and even. His two daughters lay next to him, both fast asleep.

The assassin grimaced. He didn't like hurting children. He had in the past - when it was part of a job - but it always left a sour taste in his mouth.

A lantern sat in one corner of the room, a single orange flame sending soft light across the tatami. The flame allowed the assassin to see into the recesses of the room, where several swords were resting. They were battered and well-used, but still sharp enough to kill.

The assassin moved silently forward on the tatami until he stood over Maseo. He bowed and whispered a quiet prayer so that he would be forgiven for the sin he was about to commit. Then, the assassin unsheathed his sword slowly. He tried to let the steel slide out silently, but this was the first time he had tried an assassination with this sword, and it was longer than he was comfortable with. As the last bit of metal left the scabbard, it rubbed against the side, and made a quiet _shing._

Maseo's eyes whipped open. The assassin tried to hurry and plunge the blade into his quarry's heart, but Maseo reacted faster than he thought possible. Sudden adrenaline made him instantly awake as he grabbed a sword and crouched in front of his daughters. The assassin circled Maseo, but he stayed stubbornly between the assassin and his children. He would not budge.

Sentiment, the assassin thought.

The two met with a clash that shook the room, their swords fighting for dominance. They cut and sliced and parried, neither able to get the best of the other. The assassin was strong and well-trained, but Maseo was the husband of the famous Tatsu, and his skills were just as polished.

With a surge of strength, the assassin pushed Maseo back. He stumbled for a moment, instantly regaining his footing, but it was enough. The assassin brought his sword up and around, cutting deep into Maseo's bicep. Maseo stumbled away, and his ankle caught on the lantern, knocking it over.

The crash woke the girls, who looked bewildered up at their father and the mysterious man. One of them began to wail, a shriek of pain and confusion. Maseo shielded them with his body, the sword pointed at the assassin. But his muscles were quivering and his kimono was turning red, the blood seeping out of his wound.

None of them noticed the flames from the lantern lick along the tatami, setting it on fire.

The assassin flicked his sword lazily through the air, confident that Maseo would soon be dead. He was already thinking of the sake and company that he would be enjoying thanks to the money he would collect from this assassination.

In one sudden, desperate motion, Maseo flung his sword at the assassin. It went wide, but it was distraction enough that Maseo could grab his daughters and run out of the room. The assassin cursed and gave chase down the corridor.

But Maseo was injured and weighed down by his crying children, and the assassin was ambitious and athletic. Maseo could hear the assassin's footsteps pounding behind him. Maseo yanked open a pantry closet and unceremoniously dumped his daughters on a shelf, then slammed the door, leaving them whimpering in the darkness. Maseo kept running, leading the assassin away from his children.

The only thing that kept Maseo going was the adrenaline pumping through his veins. He stumbled out into the yard, the moonlight illuminating the scene with cold silver. The assassin's footsteps grew closer.

Maseo knew the assassin was right behind him. But he was unable to go on. His lifeblood was leaving him and, with the adrenaline gone, he was in agony.

The footsteps stopped behind him. Maseo whispered a quiet blessing to his gods to keep his girls safe. The tip of the assassin's sword nudged between his shoulder blades, the metal cold against his flesh.

He was in so much pain. His mind was brimming with agony. He would gladly welcome death if it meant the end to this pain that overwhelmed his body and mind.

Maseo took one last look around the garden that was bathed in silver moonlight. There was the rock where he would sit to paint the scenery. There was the flowerbed that was always blooming with colours, though now it seemed strangely uniform in the moonlight. There was the koi pond where his daughters had once tried to catch the fish swimming beneath the water.

And there was Tatsu standing on the garden path, her dark eyes wide. She wore her travelling clothes, her collection of swords in a sling over her shoulder. Their eyes locked and Maseo could see the confusion and fear in her eyes as she looked over his shoulder at the assassin standing behind Maseo, the sword tip pressed against his back.

The three of them stood frozen, a scene struck in stone. Behind the scene, flames flared across the tiled roof, lapping at the air. The fire had spread rapidly, engulfing the rooms in flame and choking the air with black smoke that billowed up into the night sky, blocking out the stars.

With the heat from the flames at his back, the assassin pushed his sword into Maseo's back in one fluid thrust. Maseo felt the cold steel slicing through his flesh, sliding between two ribs. He felt his body jerk, and then his vision blurred as excruciating pain flared across his chest. For a moment, Maseo felt himself falling, his consciousness sliding out of his own body and along the length of the blade. His eyes emptied. Tatsu watched as her husband fell to his knees, then collapsed. Blood blossomed between his shoulder blades, staining the ground.

The assassin shook the sword, spattering blood along the cobblestones. "Takeo sends his regards." A drop of blood landed on Tatsu's cheek.

Tatsu's mind was numb as she looked down at her husband's body, the assassin standing over him. Behind them, red sparks shot up into the sky as the flames consumed their house. Pieces of the roof collapsed inwards, crashing down through the fire. The flames silhouetted the assassin as he brandished his sword over Maseo's body, his scarred face shining in the firelight. Red spread over Tatsu's vision and she found a sword in her hand, the sling forgotten on the ground.

Tatsu charged the assassin. Their blades met, flashing red from the firelight. The assassin's face was pulled taught as he parried; his wrist jarring painfully with each blow. Tatsu was stronger and more skilled than any fighter he had faced before, and her anger gave her strength.

Ashes and embers fell around them as they fought, blades clashing. Anger filled Tatsu, adrenaline flushing through her veins. She pushed the assassin back against the flaming house, their swords creating streaks of silver in the night air. They fought hard, each landing small cuts upon their opponent. The assassin circled Tatsu, forcing her closer to the flames with each blow. The heat licked at Tatsu's back and sweat dripped down her spine. The assassin pivoted unexpectedly, his sword slicing into Tatsu's stomach. She could feel her skin and muscle split beneath the blade, but the pain was dull.

Blood roared in her ears, anger blocking out any rational thought as her sword slashed and thrust. Her body reacted on instinct, and when the assassin's sword came down in a silver arch, Tatsu blocked it and brought her other hand up to grab the assassin's wrist. She twisted with all her might until tendons snapped and bones cracked beneath her fingers. The assassin cried out and dropped the sword. Tatsu caught the falling sword, and in the same movement, stabbed the assassin through the belly with his own sword. Her sword came up and sliced through the assassin's throat. Tatsu found herself pressed up against the assassin. She saw the assassin's astonished eyes emptying as though his soul was being sucked down into the sword. Tatsu stepped back, pulling the sword from flesh with a sickening wet sound.

She stared down at the assassin's body, her arms heavy with exhaustion. Her entire body felt tired, the cut on her stomach twinging. The adrenaline was ebbing from her veins, making her mind slow. Everything seemed numb. She couldn't even feel the heat of the flames that licked at the air inches from her skin. The only thing she could feel was the hilt of the assassin's sword in her grip. The sword felt heavier than usual and unnaturally well-balanced. It almost felt like a living thing in her hand. For a moment, she thought she could feel a gentle pulse in the hilt. A whisper nudged against her consciousness, a wisp of a voice she could barely make out. It sounded like her daughter's names.

The whisper shook Tatsu into awareness. She stared into the flaming house, her lungs choking from the smoke. Yuki. Reiko. Where were they?

 _The fire_ , the familiar voice whispered. _They're in the fire_.

Forgetting the cut on her side, forgetting the heat of the flames, forgetting that the house was collapsing around her, Tatsu dived into the fire. She pushed her way through the burning house, her fingers blistering as she kept a grip on the two swords. The black smoke filled her lungs and made her eyes water as she gasped for breath.

 _The closet_. _Check the closet_. The voice was getting stronger, urging her on.

Tatsu stumbled through the fire, desperately trying to identify her surroundings. She couldn't tell the difference between any of the rooms. Everything was on fire. All she could see was flames and smoke and ash. Something above her cracked, and Tatsu looked up just in time to see a section of the ceiling fall down upon her. Tatsu dived out the way, skidding across a path of embers. She slammed into a wall, the weakened wood splintering on impact. Tatsu fell amoung the flames, one of the swords skittering along the floor away from her. She stumbled towards it, trying to find her sword.

 _Leave it._ The voice insisted, _get out of the house._

But the children. Yuki. Reiko. Tatsu tried to speak, but the smoke choked her throat.

 _No._ The voice sounded strained. _They…they're lost._

Tatsu stumbled her way through the flames, desperately searching for a way out. A gentle breeze touched her bare skin and Tatsu moved towards it, breaking out into the courtyard. Tatsu fell to her knees, coughing. She crawled away from the house, trying to escape the searing heat given off by the flames.

Tatsu reached the garden and pulled herself up, leaning against a sakura tree. Something was burning, and it wasn't the house. It smelled odd, like singed fabric. And something was smoking, emitting little puffs of smog. Tatsu began pulling off her kimono, until she realized that it wasn't her clothes that were on fire. She quickly grabbed her hair and, using the sword still in her hand, chopped her hair off right above her shoulders. The smoldering locks dropped to the ground around her, the fine black hair dotted with embers.

Tatsu looked back at her burning home – her burning family. Takeo had done this. He ordered the murder of her husband and her children.

Tatsu's grip on the sword tightened, her knuckles turning white. She still held the assassin's sword. Golden kanji was inscribed on the top of the hilt, naming the sword as Soultaker. Shaking with anger, Tatsu pointed the sword towards her burning home.

She swore on Soultaker to remember this moment. She swore to take revenge on Takeo for the death of her family. An odd green aura seemed to glisten around the sword, caressing Tatsu's hand like a mist.

For a moment, Tatsu thought she heard her husband's voice. _I love you._

She blinked and the aura disappeared. Tatsu lowered the sword and turned her back on the burning house. She walked away, refusing to look back.

* * *

Tatsu crouched in the center of the dojo, panting. Soultaker was clenched in her hand, slick with sweat. She gasped, her lungs desperate for air. Tadashi stood over her, his own sword in hand. Tatsu tried to get to her feet, Soultaker raised as protection, but she stumbled. Her legs felt like weights.

Tadashi sighed and sheathed his sword. "That is enough for now, Tatsu."

"No." Tatsu struggled to her feet. "Keep going. I need to be stronger."

Tadashi shook his head, a smile making the lines around his eyes crinkle. "Well, if you must wield something, let it be this."

He took a broom from the corner of the room and offered it to Tatsu.

Sighing, Tatsu sheathed her sword and took the broom. Tadashi began sweeping from one edge of the tatami and Tatsu from the other so that they would meet in the middle. The beams of sunlight from the high windows caught the dust as it swirled around them, like shining snowflakes.

Tatsu violently moved the broom bristles against the tatami mats, grumbling quietly under her breath.

"Why must you become stronger, Tatsu?" Tadashi asked, his own broom moving with deceptive grace.

"To become a samurai," Tatsu answered.

Tadashi chuckled. "That wasn't my question, child."

Tatsu stiffened, her eyes hard. She continued to sweep the tatami with controlled precision. They finished and returned the brooms to their corner. Afterwards, the teacher and student sat together and sharpened their swords out in the garden that circled the dojo.

Tatsu always enjoyed tending to her weapons. The familiar movement of blade against stone was calming. They sat together in silence, Tadashi's question seemingly forgotten until Tatsu spoke.

Her voice was calm, distant. "I am responsible for my husband's death."

"I was under the impressions that it was the yakuza who burned your home and killed your family."

"The yakuza…their assassin was there under the orders of my brother-in-law. But it shouldn't have happened that way. He believed my husband had a debt to pay – and he ought to have faced him in proper combat, not sent an assassin in the heart of the night."

Tadashi nodded. Debts between brothers almost always led to bloodshed. It was the way of men.

"What debt did he believe owed to him?"

Tatsu's hand slipped, Soultaker shrieking against the stone. Carefully, she continued to sharpen the sword. Her movements were natural and fluid, but there was a tenseness about her muscles that Tadashi recognized. Tatsu was angry. And guilty.

"I...Takeo…my brother-in-law believed that he was in love with me. He believed that I belonged with him, not my husband."

"A man's love for a woman is not the woman's fault. It does not allow him to lay claim to her."

"I love my husband, Tadashi."

Tadashi looked carefully over at his student, moving on to sharpen his dagger. "I was not implying otherwise."

"I loved Takeo too, once."

"The brother-in-law?"

Tatsu nodded. "We courted in secret. The marriage to my husband was planned by our parents. I knew that I would eventually marry him, not Takeo. I believed he knew that as well. Neither of us were willing to be disowned by our families. I did not love my husband when I first married, but I knew that I could grow to love him. But, on my wedding night, Takeo asked me to run away with him. I refused."

Tatsu looked down at the sword in her hand, fighting to blink back tears. She had promised herself that she wouldn't shed a tear – not until she had her revenge. "I refused him, but…I hesitated. He asked and there was a moment where I saw a life living with the man I loved, travelling across Japan together. Not having to worry about familial duties or raising children. So, I hesitated. I believe he took that hesitation to mean that he had a claim on my heart."

Tatsu bowed her head, a single tear dropping onto the blade sitting across her lap. "I am the reason my family is dead."

Tadashi placed a gentle hand on his student's shoulder. "You loved your family."

It wasn't a question, but Tatsu answered anyway. "I love my husband. And my children. I love them so much that I cannot even bare to say their names."

"Do you still love him?" Tadashi asked gently.

Tatsu looked at him with red eyes, a question in her gaze.

"Takeo. You loved him once. Do you still?"

Tadashi watched as Tatsu's face hardened, murder in her eyes. The cold, merciless anger in her expression made Tadashi shiver. He knew what this young woman was capable of.

"Whatever claim he had to my heart disappeared the day he ordered the death of my family. He committed the one sin that I can never forgive."

Tadashi nodded, understanding in his eyes. "And to get your revenge, you must become stronger. Tatsu, your talent is obvious and your skill has only grown over the years. You are already a strong, young woman." Tadashi sheathed his dagger and stood. "Whenever you are ready to spar again, come inside."

Tatsu bowed and watched her teacher return to the dojo, his sword swinging casually at his side. By herself, Tatsu finished sharpening Soultaker and returned the blade to its sheath. She sat for a moment, looking out on the garden. A rock waterfall sat by an outcropping of blossoming trees. The sunlight glittered off the rippling water like fairies dancing over the falls.

Tatsu gently ran her hand along the sword, the familiar feeling comforting. Every time she held Soultaker she felt closer to her husband. It was taken her a while, but Tatsu had begun to suspect that her husband's soul had truly been captured within the shining blade. She had found herself, when she felt most lonely and lost, talking to the sword. And, when her mind was calm, Tatsu was almost certain that she heard her husband's voice speaking back to her.

* * *

Trapped inside the sword, Maseo was losing his mind. Not that he had much of a mind to lose, now that his memories were warping and becoming confused. The other souls in the sword would whisper and yell and overlap to the point that their voices became nothing but a confusion of screams. He could only guess how long the whispering souls had been trapped in the sword, as their voices seemed to dim with age. Maseo worried that soon his own voice would become nothing but a whisper. Even the ones that yelled refused to communicate with Tatsu when she held the sword – they simply screamed for vengeance.

Maseo let his mind wander, floating through the stream of souls. He could hear Tatsu's voice, but it was far off and dim. Her familiar, lilting tones came closer and Maseo focused his energy on her voice. It suddenly echoed through the sword and Maseo realized that she was answering questions that he couldn't hear. She was talking about him – how she believed that she was responsible for his death.

Maseo listened, astonished, as Tatsu told a story that he had never dreamed of. He hadn't known that Takeo had been so in love with Tatsu. He hadn't known that Tatsu felt the same. It shook him to know that Tatsu had loved his brother. But she also loved him. He knew that with every ounce of his being. He had seen that love in Tatsu's eyes every morning when they woke up together, their limbs intertwined. She would turn her head and smile up at him. They had loved each other, he was sure of it. And they had both loved their daughters.

Maseo heard Tatsu's voice break and he felt something wet land on the blade. Tatsu was crying. Maseo felt the presence of whoever Tatsu was talking to disappear, leaving Tatsu alone with Soultaker. It was silent for a moment, the other souls quieting as Tatsu stroked the sword.

Then she spoke. "I'm sorry, Maseo."

The sorrow in her voice broke Maseo's heart. How badly he wanted to take Tatsu in his arms, stroke her hair and tell her that she wasn't responsible. What he would give to tell Tatsu that he didn't blame her for his death. That she was forgiven.

But he couldn't. All he could do was watch Tatsu walk down her own path.

* * *

When Tatsu landed in America, a group of men was waiting for her. They escorted her from the airport to a nondescript building, where a tall man dressed in a military uniform sat her down.

English felt odd on Tatsu's tongue, but she made sure to speak without an accent. "I was told that I would be given information on Takeo Yamashiro."

"Yes, we shall get to that," the man said in perfect Japanese. "You are here because we would like to offer you a deal. We would like to employ you, and in return, we shall allow you access to all our information and informants to track down Mr. Yamashiro."

"What sort of employment?"

"You will help us track down, capture and restrain people of the…supernatural persuasion. You are talented, Mrs. Yamashiro. Your skills and temperament are exactly what we need."

"My temperament?"

"Your undying need for justice. And for revenge."

Tatsu nodded slowly. She needed contacts to find where Takeo was hiding – and the people that she would be employed to track down would have the information that she needed.

"Yes," Tatsu said. "I will join you."

The military man smiled, the expression making him look years younger. He pulled out a clipboard and pen.

"You will need a codename," he said, reverted back to English.

Tatsu nodded, her hand resting on Soultaker. "Write down: Katana."


	5. Chapter 5 - Captain Boomerang

**A/N: A guest asked for Captain Boomerang, so here he is! I tried to think his character through as much as possible, but if you have any questions please ask, so I can explain why I wrote him the way I did. Hope you enjoy!**

 **All rights belong to David Ayer and DC Comics.**

* * *

Chapter 5 – Introducing Captain Boomerang

George Harkness sat alone in the classroom, basking in the silence of the school. The other students had left an hour ago, yelling and stomping their way out of the schools entrance. The confusion of tiny children eventually petered out and disappeared as they jumped in the back of their parent's pick-ups, ready for a weekend free from responsibilities.

George usually stayed behind after class, trying to avoid the other children. He knew that they didn't like him – they would snicker and send antagonistic glances his way in the hallway. The same thing had happened at his old school, but he'd graduated primary school last year – rescuing his teacher from another year of his wisecracks and his peers from a subject of name-calling.

George didn't know how it happened, but somehow his classmates at his new secondary school had found out. The first sign was when George found 'RETARD' carved into the top of his desk one morning. Perhaps one of his classmates had seen him with his family or knew someone from his primary school in the suburbs of Korumburra. Somehow, the students had found out about his half-sister. George's biological father was an American soldier that had come over for a few months, leaving long before George was born. His mother refused to speak about it – she'd never even told him his father's name. A few years ago, Betty Harkness had remarried a construction worker named Ian Clearer. The only good thing that had come out of the marriage was his baby sister – Iris.

George grimaced as he flipped through the journal he carried everywhere with him. His dominate left hand was wrapped in a thick cast and held close with a sling, making it difficult to move. The thin, navy journal had been a gift from his mother last Christmas. The binding was worn and smudged from George flipping through the journal, his drawings filling the pages with black pen. The first page contained his name, written in sloppy script, and his first drawing. It was a small doodle in the upper corner of a boomerang from a cartoon his sister loved watching. The other drawings were more detailed, though most were of boomerangs. The others were sketches of Iris smiling happily or playing with her favourite stuffed unicorn, Pinky.

The schematics showed three dimensional boomerangs of varying shapes and sizes. George had designed each one with a unique ability. One was designed to make sharp 90 degree turns, while another could explode upon impact. George flipped to an unfinished drawing of a boomerang that could separate into several tiny weapons and started sketching, the lines awkward from his right hand. He was still trying to figure out how the boomerang could split apart, or whether it would be easier to make a boomerang that could morph between different types of weapons.

"George?"

George turned to see his physics teacher standing in the doorway. "What's up, Mr. Nguyen?"

"Just getting some marking done. Did you need to see one of the teachers?" Mr. Nguyen asked, coming to sit next to George.

He shrugged, his sling making the action somewhat lopsided. "I just thought I'd hang behind. Get some work done."

"Not school work, apparently," his teacher said, looking at George's journal over his shoulder. "What does that one do?"

He pointed at the boomerang on the page opposite the one George was sketching. It was a small three-pronged boomerang. Each prong had a triangular shaped florescent strip that emitted light.

"It's a boomerang that gives off different types of light. Bright white to blind whoever it's thrown at, red to illuminate at night and green for underwater."

"That's very interesting. But I don't think that shape would work underwater."

"That's why you use this." George flipped a few pages, revealing a circular boomerang that was fatter in the middle than at the edge. Mathematical equations were written over and around the drawing, most of which were about the aerodynamics of water. "It should work. I haven't tried it though."

"That's ingenious!" Mr. Nguyen laughed, astonished at the detail George put into his designs. "You know, if you put this much effort into your classwork you'd be a brilliant student. Get into college, get a degree."

George snorted, managing to fit all his disbelief into the one sound.

Mr. Nguyen sighed and removed his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "You might not believe it now, but you could do great things if you could just put some effort into your education – especially someone with your intelligence. George, your circumstances might not be ideal-"

George froze, the gentle scratch of his pen pausing. "My circumstances?"

The teacher paused before continuing. "Everyone has things that are difficult to talk about, George. Children can be mean, and I know that the other students haven't been making your time here easy. All I can say is that all the teachers and I are always willing to help. I know that with your family's situation, especially with your sister…"

George briskly closed his journal and dropped it into his tattered bag, letting it thump to the bottom. He refused to meet Mr. Nguyen's eyes as he stood and pulled the bag over his cast.

"George, you know I'm here to talk if any of the students are giving you a hard time," the teacher insisted as George hurried towards the door.

George paused for a second, his good hand on the door handle. "Kids aren't the mean ones, Mr. Nguyen." And he ducked out of the room.

* * *

The grey autumn sky hung heavily over the yellowing grass of the trailer park that George walked through. Trees and trailers intermingled, the occasional rusting truck parked in the shade. George followed a gravel path between the trailers, passing grotesque gnomes and spinning garden decorations. His trailer was on the edge of the park, tucked between a massive Paperbark tree and the trailer of an old couple who George liked, mostly because they doted on Iris.

George tip-toed up to his trailer and carefully opened the door so that it didn't squeak. The inside was dark, the blinds drawn carelessly across the windows so that only small shafts of light could sneak through. Empty beer cans and abandoned food wrappers littered the floor, piling up around the barcalounger that sat in front of a small television. The television was still on, playing some western cowboy movie that George's mother would never let him watch. A deep snoring came from the chair and George could see the top of his step-father's balding head over the headrest.

As quietly as he could, George closed the door behind him. He stepped carefully around the garbage. He knew that when his mother would come home from the hospital, she'd sigh and start cleaning. He doubted that Ian would even bother to acknowledge her arrival, except to ask what was for dinner.

George ducked behind the dusty curtain that covered a corner of the trailer. A small cot was set up next to a crib and television tray. George dropped his bag, crouched and reached underneath his cot. He kept his textbooks piled beneath it, along with a collection of comic books and Iris's toys. The most important item was hidden at the back. It was this item that George pulled out from under his bed. It was a small box with intricate flowery designs that danced around the rim. Inside was George's most treasured possessions – a simple wooden boomerang.

George grabbed the boomerang and snuck quietly back out of the trailer, leaving his step-father asleep in front of the television. He was halfway through the trailer park when he heard someone yell out his name. George turned to see his friend Mike running towards him, his large red jacket flapping ridiculously behind him.

He reached George, slapping him on the shoulder. "You taking the boomerang out for a spin again? You know, I always thought you were a little like a boomerang." He pushed George, sending him toppling onto the grass. George scrambled up, pushing back at Mike.

"See?" Mike said. "You always bounce back!"

The two friends jostled each other, laughing, as they walked towards a clearing nearby. They spent the afternoon tossing the boomerang around, attempting to get a perfect arch. George could already throw the boomerang, send it spinning around a tree, and right back to his hand.

Mike stamped his foot and sat down in feigned anger after his throw sent the boomerang into a low-hanging tree branch.

"How do you that?" he asked as George shook the branch, catching the boomerang as it fell. "I wish I was good at something. I bet you could make a fortune putting on a show. Buy a Ferrari or a Lamborghini."

George stretched out next to his friend, spinning the boomerang on a finger the way one would with a basketball. "Do you think people would actually pay for that?" George paused. "The bank refused mum a loan last week. She needed the money to pay Iris's bills."

Mike intercepted the boomerang as George tossed it in the air. "How's she doing, by the way?"

"She's in the hospital again."

"I'm sorry, man. Is she going to be ok?"

George shrugged, watching the mass of clouds drift lazily past. "The doctors say it's getting worse. They think she has some sort of heart defect – apparently it's common in cases of severe Down syndrome. But they need to run more tests to know for sure, and tests cost money."

"You'll figure something out," was all Mike could think to say.

* * *

The bar was almost empty of patrons. The television posted at one end of the bar was the only sound; the weatherman's droning voice filling the small room. George sat alone at the bar, nursing a beer. His fingers drummed out a tuneless beat on the tin, sloshing the liquor. George's long jacket was at odds with the heat of the establishment, but he refused to take it off. A flimsy baseball hat proclaiming his allegiance to the Perth Heat sat snugly over his curls, shadowing his face.

A group of women entered the bar, already tipsy. George adjusted his cap, careful that none of the giggling women caught a glimpse of his face. They sat down in a corner, and George swivelled so that his back was to them. He watched as the television flashed through a series of ads before returning to the news. A woman slathered in makeup sat behind a desk, her smile frozen on as she discussed some fashion disaster at a red carpet event.

George's mind wandered towards the heist happening later tonight. He anxiously touched the many boomerangs strapped to the inside of his coat. Mike had the layout memorized and everything else prepared. All they had to do now was wait. George knew Mike was hiding out at his girlfriend's house, as he always did before a break in. But George could never stay still beforehand. His legs would fill up with restless energy and he'd find himself stalking the streets until it was time.

George's attention was caught by the television as the newswoman said his name. "A recent series of bank robberies has been taking place across southern Australia, with the most recent being at ANZ bank in Melbourne only two days ago. The authorities have been tracking two suspects: George Harkness and Mike Wentworth. A forensic psychologist reported that the pair are dangerous and armed, as well as possible alcoholics. The police do not currently have any knowledge of the suspects' whereabouts, but would like to ask any citizen to report suspicious behaviour. Now, on to sports…"

George looked down at the beer in his hand in disgust. He was holding it so tightly that his fingers made indents in the tin. He pushed the can away, dropped a bill on the counter and exited the bar.

Outside, the spring air was warmer than comfortable. George set a brisk pace, letting the wind cool his face and overactive mind. The sun had set hours ago, despite the lengthening days. Streetlights flickered as George strode underneath them, wandering aimlessly. Soon, the streets were deserted and he made his way towards the east end.

Their target was a minor bank. It was one they would usually ignore, but they were on a deadline. George only needed a little bit more – just a few tens of thousands – and then he could stop being a criminal. He sighed as he sharply turned a corner. George wasn't even sure that he wanted to stop being a criminal. The adrenaline rush right before a heist…sneaking in and out without anyone the wiser…It made him feel alive. And he was good at it.

George shook the thoughts from his head as he reached the target. It wouldn't do any good to worry about the future. Right now, he needed to focus on what needed to be done.

The bank was situated on the corner of an intersection, its white marble walls almost shining in the darkness. Pillars propped up the overhanging roof, giving the small building the ability to loom. A single streetlight stood sentinel, creating a puddle of yellow light in front of the building.

George strolled leisurely past the bank, pointedly ignoring it. He turned the corner and stopped by a hedge that separated the back of the bank from its neighbour – an old shoe store. George took one look around the abandoned street, then stepped smartly through the hedge to the other side. Hands gripped his shoulders and he struggled for a second before recognizing Mike's obnoxious grin.

"Since when do you get anywhere before me?" George asked, dusting off the leaves attached to his jacket.

Mike shrugged. "Krissy kicked me out. She thinks I'm cheating on her."

"With who? Your hand?" George joked.

Mike chuckled, but his smile faded as he looked back at the bank. "This is too soon. There are too many potential problems: the schematics could be wrong, the guards could have changed routes, maybe they updated their security systems."

"I know, I know. But this is my last chance."

The two stood in silence for a moment, considering what they were about to do.

"She's getting worse, huh?" Mike finally said.

"Yeah…she's in critical care, waiting for a heart transplant. They have it scheduled for next week, but if mom can't pay for it…"

Mike rested a reassuring hand on George's shoulder. "Take my cut."

"What?"

"From this heist – our last heist together. I want you to take my cut. Give it to that little sister of yours. God knows she needs it more than I do."

George looked at his friend, his vision suddenly blurry.

"Aw don't cry, man. Now," he slapped George on the back. "Let's go make some money."

The back of the bank was a series of windows, the alarms blinking on each sill. They were making a statement to whoever considered robbing the back: that you wouldn't get far. The two men sidled up to a window large enough for them to fit through, and Mike pulled an automatic center punch from his satchel and pressed it against the glass as George laid blankets outside the window. The center punch was small, about the size of a pen, with a high-tensile steel tip. For one intense moment, nothing happened as the pressure built inside the center punch. Then the tip sliced into the glass with a quiet pop and the glass shattered noiselessly, landing on the blanket. George braced for the alarms, but nothing happened. The window alarms continued to blink, undisturbed.

"Told you they were fake," Mike said, and motioned for George to hand him his phone.

George passed it over and pulled out a boomerang with a night vision micro-camera mounted on top.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Hold up." The phone in Mike's hand started vibrating. "You're getting a call."

"Ignore it."

Mike swiped his finger along the screen, silencing it. "Ok, the camera's connected."

George squinted into darkness of the bank, the only light emanating from a single lamp sitting on a deserted security desk. He measured the distance and threw the boomerang into the bank, letting it soar slowly through the room.

George leaned over Mikes shoulder and watched the camera feed as the boomerang flew through the air, revealing a spacious room with marble flooring and a multitude of clerk desks shaped in a crescent. They caught a glimpse of the vault door through an arch hidden at the back.

"We've got one camera over the front door, a fishbowl camera in the center of the ceiling and one right above the vault to our left," Mike said as the boomerang came shooting back towards them.

George caught the returning boomerang and tucked it away, pulling out three small boomerangs about the size of his fist. Each contained a little packet of black ink.

"Hurry it up before the guard comes back from the toilet," Mike whispered.

George did some quick measurements in his head, judging the distance from the window to each camera. He threw the boomerangs in quick succession, sending each one out so that they swooped right in front of one of the three cameras, squirting ink at the tip of their arch.

George caught the returning boomerangs deftly and tucked them away. "After you."

"Why, thank you." Mike popped over the windowsill, landing silently on the polished bank floor.

George followed and together they slunk towards the arch embedded in a wall plastered with idyllic paintings. The arch was nondescript metal, leading into a small antechamber where the vault door stood waiting. The vault was smaller than the ones they were used to. A thin grate covered a medium sized door. The door was thick silver metal, a complicated structure of interconnected bars and wheels melded to the door. A single red light shone eerily in the center of the door like an evil eye.

George was startled as Mike started swearing violently in hushed tones. After a few minutes, he finally ran out of breath as his face turned purple.

"Your face matches the lovely fuchsia curtains your mom owns," George calmly remarked.

"Shut up."

"I'm going to guess that they updated their security for the vault door," George continued calmly, examining the shiny metal. "Think we could blow it?"

Mike took a soothing breath and revaluated the vault door. "I don't think any of your explosive boomerangs would be able to make it through that. It's almost fifty centimeters of solid titanium. You'd need some hard-core explosives to break through that. And besides," he gestured back towards the security desk, "there's no way we'd be able to do this quietly."

"What about the wall?"

"Hm?"

"Could we blow through the wall next to the door and make it into the vault?"

Mike stepped up to the wall, gently running his fingers along the plaster. "From the schematics, the vault is big enough that we could break through without destroying too much of what's inside. It'll be loud though. We'll have to distract the guard. You got something for that?"

"Give me a second," George rifled through the boomerangs in his coat as he walked back towards the center of the bank.

The security desk was still empty. Mike was done some research, and they'd chosen tonight because this guard was older and had a record for wandering off or falling asleep on duty. It was lucky that the bank could only afford one guard per night, although the new vault door was probably the reason that was all they could afford.

George pulled out a small circular bulb and stuck it to the outside of the lamp shade on the desk. The light pulsed once, then went dark. It was a small flash grenade that he had adapted to work on a smaller scale so that it would only blind people within three square feet of the grenade.

George returned to the vault and he and Mike stood safely back from the wall they intended to break through.

Mike checked his watch, opening up his bag with his other hand. "Once we break through the wall, the guard should be out here in forty seconds, he'll pass the grenade and he should be blinded for another thirty seconds and be unable to stand for double that. We're going to need to get in, grab all we can, and get out as fast as possible."

"Ok, ready?" George withdrew the largest boomerang in his repertoire.

It was hefty and carried enough explosives to break through a thick armoured car. It was his favourite boomerang – he'd always had a thing for explosives.

"Two minutes, ok?"

George nodded and threw the boomerang against the wall as hard as he could. It punched through the wall and exploded, sending chunks of brick and plaster shooting out into the vault. The moment the boomerang made impact, Mike and George were moving, jumping through the new hole and into the vault.

Bank notes fluttered around them, falling to the ground like very expensive snowflakes. Mike immediately started stuffing banknotes into his bag, while George went to the far wall where the jewels were kept. He pushed strings of pearls, cases of diamonds and sparkling rubies into his jacket pockets. Within seconds, their bags and pockets were bursting. In quick, practiced motions, they cinched the satchel closed and leaped back out of the vault.

A loud explosion shook the air, and George knew that the security guard would be encased in a globe of pure light. His vision would go white for several seconds, then fade to a confusion of blurred images. The guard's inner ear would be hit hard, affecting his balance and motor skills. George felt bad for the old man. Hopefully, he'd take this experience as a sign from god to retire.

George and Mike hurried out into the center of the bank, slowed down by their heavy burdens. The bank was dark, the lamp having shattered when the grenade went off. Their feet beat out a panicked rhythm against the floor as they made their way towards the window, no longer worried about staying quiet.

"Stop!" a strangled voice cried out.

The guard was stumbling towards them through the darkness, a flashlight beam wavering in the air. George cursed quietly and pushed Mike further. The guard must have been standing at the edge of the grenade's explosion.

Suddenly, Mike fell, his ankle twisting painfully beneath him. George pulled him up, tossing Mike's arm over his shoulders. They stumbled forward, an awkward three legged beast.

"Stop!" the guard yelled again.

The flashlight landed on George and two sparking strings shot in front of them. George instantly squeaked to a stop. He recognized a Taser's warning shot when he saw one. Slowly, George and Mike turned to face the security guard. Mike shoved the satchel behind his back with a shaking hand, his face pale with pain as the flashlight's beam blinded them.

George's free hand snuck slowly into his jacket, grasping the closest boomerang. He squinted through the light and saw the guard's drawn face. He held a Taser gun in one hand, pointed directly at them, but his hands were shaking. The grenade must still be affecting his balance.

"Don't move," the guard said, his voice unnecessarily loud. "The police have been notified and they're on their way."

He stepped closer to them and George could see that his eyes were unfocused. George shifted, half withdrawing the boomerang.

The guard swung the Taser towards him and he froze. "You don't want to try anything, son. Get your friend to put bag down and step away from it."

"He can't," George said. "He's injured."

The guard's eyes flickered downward to Mike's injured ankle and George acted. In a single movement, he pulled the boomerang from his coat and sent it flying with a flick of his wrist. It shot through the air, spinning wildly. Something loud cracked through the air, and George felt Mike slump against him. The boomerang smacked the guard right in the jaw and he was sent sprawling along the tiled floor.

"Mike? Mike?" George shook his friend, still holding him up with one arm.

Wires connected the fallen Taser gun to the two darts that were embedded in Mike's chest. George yanked them out and pulled Mike closer, trying to take his dead weight on his hip. Outside, George thought he heard sirens, but it might have just been the blood pounding in his head.

George lugged Mike to the window as fast as he could, the satchel dragging behind them, still slung over Mike's shoulder. He scrambled through the window and dragged Mike through it after him. Mike stalled halfway through the window and when George gave a hard yank, something ripped. He pulled his friend through and realized how much lighter he was. The satchel had fallen off Mike's arm and now lay on the bank floor.

Red and blue light flashed in the street, followed by a siren that was getting louder with each passing second. With one last look back at the bank, George tossed his friend over his shoulder and ran, leaving the satchel behind.

He made it three blocks before he had to stop. His back and lungs were burning under the weight of his friend and he could barely feel his feet. George ducked into a small park where only the moonlight broke through the trees. George laid Mike down on a bench and took a few deep breaths, letting the warm air sooth his throat.

"Ok, Mike. I can't carry you anymore. Wake up already."

George tapped his friend's legs, a little harder than necessary. Mike didn't react. George leaned over his friend's face, concern beginning to seep into his mind. Mike's eyes were closed, his mouth slightly open. He looked exactly like the time when George had been trying out his frag boomerang and had accidentally clipped Mike chin, knocking him out.

George slapped his friend's cheeks, trying to rouse him. Still Mike didn't react. It didn't look like he was breathing either. George hesitantly placed one hand on Mike's chest, but it didn't move. Suddenly frantic, George grabbed Mike's wrist, his fingers searching for a pulse. There wasn't one.

"Mike? Oi, Mike, wake up!" George shook his friend, desperately trying to get a reaction.

Tears blurred his vision and sobs tore their way out of his throat. He held Mike's hand in his own, so tight that he could feel his knuckles rubbing painfully together, but he didn't let go.

George didn't know how long he was crouching at Mike's side, tears running down his face. Eventually, the sobs stopped wracking his body and his eyes dried up. He unclenched his hands from Mikes' cold one, his fingers stiff. George sat back and closed his eyes. They felt like sandpaper against his eyelids. His chest felt empty, like it was his heart that had stopped.

Finally, George managed to stand. He could hear the far off sirens. The police must have found the unconscious security guard and broken vault. If the guard was awake, they'd have a description of him.

Survival instinct kicked in, and George turned away from his friend. He paused for a moment, and turned back. Trying not to think about what he was doing, George frisked Mike's body and pulled out his phone that Mike had tucked into his pocket.

George squeezed his friend's hand once more, then turned and walked out of the park. He moved away from the sirens, his feet wandering through the streets. As he walked, George checked his phone, his movements' unconscious. He had five messages, all from his mother's cell phone.

Not really aware of what he was doing, George hit 'check messages' and held the phone to his ear. His mother's voice rang through his head, tinny from the phone's distortion.

"George, sweetie, I know I'm not supposed to call, but I really need to talk to you. Call me back."

 _Click._

"It's Iris, she's having some trouble and the doctors are worried, but I'm sure it's nothing."

 _Click._

Her voice was getting shriller with each word. "I don't even know if you're in Korumburra, but Iris is getting worse. God, George, her heart stopped….they had to revive her. Please, I need to hear your voice."

 _Click._

"The doctors say she doesn't have long left, George. She's been asking for you. I know…I know you can't come…but…please. I can't be alone right now."

 _Click._

"She's gone, George. Her heart gave out and there wasn't anything the doctors could do."

For the second time that night, George ran.

* * *

George didn't notice the odd looks and whispers he caused as he strode through the hospital hallways, his jacket billowing around him. He turned a corner and saw him mother sitting alone on a chair. George hadn't seen his mother in two years, and the lines around her eyes were deeper than he remembered, but he still recognized her. She looked up at him and George found himself enfolding her small frame in his arms, clinging to her like he had as a child. Her familiar scent helped sooth his aching heart.

Betty Harkness held her son at arm's length, a watery smile on her lips. "Oh, sweetie, you shouldn't have come. The police will guess that you're here."

George wiped at her tear stained cheeks. "I know, Mum. Can I see her?"

"Iris is in there." She pointed through a nearby doorway. "But I can't go back in there. I just...I can't spend any more time in that damned room."

"It's ok, mum. I can go in alone."

He helped his mother back into her chair, gave her a kiss on the cheek, and pushed open the door she had pointed at.

There was only one bed in the small room, the florescent lighting making everything seem too white and clean. Iris was lying stretched out on the cot, her small body barely filling half of it. A thin cotton sheet was pulled up her chest, her hands lying limp at her sides. Her unicorn toy was tucked under one arm, its bright pink the only colour in the room.

George stood at her bedside, looking down at the still face of his sister. She seemed too still, without her usual lopsided smile and small bright eyes. He could almost imagine her opening her eyes and reaching up to him, saying his name in that happy lisp he'd always loved.

He felt like he was supposed to cry, but he didn't think he had any tears left to shed. The ache that had started in his heart since he'd gotten his mum's phone messages grew stronger. His hands were curled into shaking fists, but he didn't know if it was from anger or agony. George stuffed his hands into his pockets, the sudden touch of cool metal against his skin clearing his mind. He pulled out a string of pearls, his foggy mind taking a moment to remind him why they were there.

But they weren't of much use now. Not with Iris gone. Not with Mike gone.

George emptied his pockets, placing every exquisite jewel and expensive necklace in the bed around Iris. People had never really been able to look past the differences in Iris's face to see the beauty beneath it, but George thought she deserved to be with things just as beautiful as her.

When he was finished, George gently laid a kiss against Iris's forehead, a single tear trailing down his cheek and onto her cool skin. Lastly, he untucked Pinky from under her arm and hid it beneath his jacket.

After all, a thief always takes the most valuable thing in the room.

* * *

 **I do have a second part to Captain Boomerang's story about his time in America, so if you want to read that story let me know, otherwise I'll move on to the next character. And let me know which character you want to hear about next: there's so many options!**

 **Thanks!**


	6. Chapter 6 - Captain Boomerang Cont

**A/N: Ok, I know...it's been a looong time. This chapter really didn't want to be written, plus I had exams and work and just general life business. But I promise that I'll try and get the next one up sooner! Reviews always give me motivation**

* * *

 **Chapter 6 – Captain Boomerang Continued...**

"Thanks," George muttered as a steaming mug of black coffee was placed in front of him.

He took a deep drink of the coffee, trying to erase the sticky taste of whiskey from last night. A headache was raging around in his skull and the usually dim lights of the diner were blinding.

George finished the coffee, letting the hot liquid burn him into wakefulness. By the time he got around to ordering a second cup, his headache had shrunk to a slight ache and he could look around without squinting.

Someone had left today's newspaper on the counter next to him, the black ink proudly stating its sponsorship by some company that created soft drinks. The date in the upper corner caught his eye as he pulled the newspaper towards him. It had been exactly a year since his airplane had landed in Central City. A year since his mother had bought him a one way plane ticket under the pseudonym 'George Green'. A year since Iris's death.

George reached one hand beneath his thin leather jacket, caressing the plush toy hidden at his side. He'd carried Pinky with him every day since he'd left Iris's hospital bed. But he refused to carry his boomerangs with him anymore – they were tucked away behind a fake wall in the small apartment that he rented on the edge of Central City.

George took one last swig of his coffee, smashed it down on the counter and let out a long sigh. He tried not to think about the family that he'd left behind.

George paid for his coffee and left the diner, walking through the busy Central City streets. He was heading south, through the less affluent sections of town where people in torn coats and too-large boots walked through the crisp early spring air. It reminded him of the trailer park where he grew up, when people who barely knew each other would congregate and talk, all because they knew that they were in the same place in life.

He wound his way through the streets until he saw "WWW Factories" written in large, beautiful calligraphy above a series of factories. George had tracked down these factories, and their owner, W.W. Wiggins, a week after landing in Central City. He'd found Wiggins before he'd even found an apartment to stay in.

Before George had gotten on that plane; his mother had pulled him aside, her eyes red from crying. She'd told him about his father – the American soldier – and how they'd met and that they'd kept in touch all these years. She'd heard that he'd created a toy company that had gone international and he now lived in Central City.  
Even though George knew his father's identity, and was working in one of his factories, he still hadn't met him in person. He'd seen him once in a while, when Wiggins did his bimonthly inspection of the factories, but George hadn't gotten the chance to talk to him. But he would. Eventually.

George walked towards the factories, his hands tucked deep into his pockets. Other men and woman that he recognized joined him, lugging large thermoses of coffee. They created a zigzagging line into the main factory, where they clocked in.  
A man with a delicately designed tattooed on his neck sidled up to George and handed him a steaming thermos of coffee.

"Thanks, Matt," George said, taking a deep draft.

"This your third cup already?"

George nodded, still not fully awake. The few cups of coffee every morning were to get rid of the hangover. It took another few cups for him to actually function.  
The line of men and women slowly made their way into the main factory building, moving with the sluggishness that affects everyone in the early hours of the morning. George and Matt punched their time cards and then separated from the main group. They were joined by Walsh, Fiona and a group of new recruits that George hadn't bothered to get to know.

Their factory was the farthest from the main building and had the largest machinery. It also had several conveyer belts that ran parallel to the walls and a large pillar in the center, holding up the tiled roof. Walsh flicked a switch and, after several loud clunks, the soft whirr of machinery filled the factory and the lights flashed on. Everyone moved towards their usual position along the work line. George slumped down beside a conveyer belt that quietly hummed to life and began sifting through the things he hadn't have time to the night before. The factory was making the last shipment of a small mousey-looking figurine that George didn't see the appeal of. Other sections of the factory were designated for testing, design and other pragmatic things that needed to be considered when making a toy that was going to be distributed to kids worldwide.

George gradually woke up as he shuffled through the toys, picking out ones that didn't meet the company's visual standards and tossing them into a nearby disposal. Fiona and Matt moved around him, tossing friendly verbal abuse back and forth. Usually George would chime in, normally in defense of Matt when Fiona's temper got the better of her, but today he didn't feel up to it. Pinky felt oddly heavy in his jacket pocket. Normally he was barely aware of the stuffed toys presence. It had just become a habit, something he barely registered anymore.

"Heads up, Green!" Walsh yelled across the factory.

George looked up just as the machined whirred down and came to a halt.

"Ok guys," Walsh continued as he handed out a sheaf of papers. "That's the last of the Rat-tails series, so we're moving on to something else." He flipped through a giant manual. "The new item is called BOOM!-a-rang, with an exclamation mark. Basically, it's a semi-plush boomerang for kids to toss around inside without destroying their parents windows."

George scanned the new toy schematics inked in bright blue and yellow. The boomerang wasn't particularly inventive, but the bright colours would appeal to children. George memorized the schematics with a quick glance, an ability that he'd picked up from all those years of bank robbing. Back then, he'd never thought this was where he'd end up.

Walsh started the machines up again and the last of the mouse toys moved down the conveyer belt and into the waiting area for inspectors to start packaging. The machine clunked away for a few moments, and George was worried it was going to stall, but then it started spitting out the boomerangs. The machine sputtered again and Matt cursed, smashing his meaty fist against the machine in an attempt to get it working. The machine grumbled in protest, made a loud shrieking noise and finally died with a series of ear-grinding clunks.

As the machine died, Walsh stomped off, grumbling about rusty machinery and bills and how nobody ever listened to him anyway. Fiona and Matt immediately plopped themselves down on a nearby bench. Parts of various machines broke down at least once a week and Walsh would always disappear for a few minutes, then come stomping back in with a mechanic. The other factory workers slumped down in their positions or slipped out the back door for a smoke.

George stretched out his arms, his joints popping. He took another swig of the coffee and paced along the conveyer belt, trying to wake his muscles up. After a few minutes of walking past the few boomerangs the machine had managed to spit out, George plucked one up and began twirling it in his fingers. His mind was still foggy with sleep and his body was working without any signals from his brain. As George paced back and forth, he tossed the boomerang into the air and twirled it between his fingers and over the back of his hand. His motor memory returned with surprising ease and George found himself juggling the boomerang hand over hand. He'd forgotten how fun it was to just play around with a boomerang.

"Damn, Green. Did you learn that back in Australia?"

Matt and Fiona had stopped bickering and were watching George instead. He caught the boomerang one last time and awkwardly put it back on the conveyer belt.

"Hey, don't stop," Fiona said. "Can you actually get it to come back to you, like a real boomerang?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Wait one sec." Fiona popped up off the bench, her red hair bouncing with sudden energy.

She dug around in the garbage can and pulled out a dozen empty soda cans. She quickly stacked the cans one on top of the other, creating a pyramid of aluminum. "I bet you five dollars you can't knock this over."

George could never resist a bet.

Fiona had set up the pyramid two conveyer belts away, about fifteen feet from where George was standing. He picked up the boomerang with a flourish as everyone gathered around. George gave them all a low bow, then pointed the boomerang towards the can pyramid, one eye closed for theatrics.

"You might want to move back," George warned the onlookers.

George added in some extra flourishes and arm waving for the hell of it, then lazily flicked his wrist, sending the boomerang soaring in a perfect crescent. The boomerang arched through the pyramid, slicing through the middle. The cans fell and the audience applauded and cheered as George caught the boomerang neatly out of the air.

"Hey, try getting it around that center pole!" one of the new guys yelled out.  
A few whoops followed his challenge. The pillar was large and ceramic and something that George would have been able to

throw around when he was thirteen. Rather than simply throwing the boomerang around the pillar, George threw it sideways, perpendicular to the floor. It split the air, and slid through a gap barely two inches thick between a skid piled high with unopened boxes and a table, before turning sharply and circling around the pillar. As everyone watched the boomerang's flight, George pulled himself up on the conveyer belt, his feet resting on either side of the rubber. He'd planned to catch the boomerang at the height of its arch, but as it came back towards him, George realized that he was going to miss the boomerang by a few feet.

The boomerang glided towards him with less force than usual, so George jumped from his conveyer belt to the one next to it, and caught the boomerang by the tips of his fingers. The crowd cheered and clapped as George toppled off the conveyer belt, trying to pass it off as part of the routine. The crowd cheered as he landed.  
George's coworkers circled him, patting him on the back. Matt gave a roaring laugh and almost knocked him over. The others plowed him with questions about how he had learned to throw a boomerang, what Australia was like, and what the proper way was to throw a boomerang.

"Well, I've never seen anything like that before in my life," a voice boomed through the factory.  
Silence instantly fell over the crowd. The gathering broke a part, revealing a grey-haired man dressed in an extravagant suit and pointed shoes so polished they shined. It was Mr. Wiggins. From afar, he had looked large in both height and girth, but standing so close now, George realized that he towered over them. George registered little things he had never noticed before – Wiggins eyes were a cool blue, a perfect replica of George's pair. Something about his face echoed George's own, like he was looking into a slightly distorted mirror.

"That's quite a talent you have there, boy."

For the first time in a long time, George was at a loss for words. It felt like he had just fallen out of reality and was viewing the factory and Wiggins – his father – through the surface of a pool.

A voice said something in the distance and, through the pool's surface, George saw Walsh address Wiggins. Wiggins turned towards Walsh, and George fell back into reality. His throat was suddenly too dry and his heart was beating dangerously fast. The boomerang was hanging from his limp fingers, completely forgotten.

"I didn't realize your rounds were happening so early today, sir." Walsh was still talking. "One of the machines broke down and I was just fetching the mechanic to take a look at it. I can assure you that we've never, ever used the products like this before. This was a one off, and I'm going to speak with Mr. Green about his decorum immediately."

"Oh, don't worry about that. I've never minded a little spirit in my employees."

"Uh…yes sir. Well, I'll just…" Walsh looked around and seemed to notice the crowd around them for the first time. "What are you standing around slack jawed for? Get back to work! We're not paying you to stand around and waste time." Everyone hurried back to their designated spots, but didn't know what to do since the machine was broken, so they just kind of stood there, looking lost.

"Right," Walsh muttered. "The machine needs fixing. I just need to find the mechanic on duty, then I'll be right back here to give you the tour."

"That's quite alright. I think I know the way around my own factories." Walsh's face reddened at Wiggin's words and George could hear Fiona's muffled giggles from behind them.

"Of course, sir," Walsh spluttered, trying to regain some sense of authority. "Do you need something, Mr. Green?"  
George was startled as Walsh suddenly addressed him. He hadn't moved since Wiggins had spoken. He was certain someone had filled his boots with cement when he wasn't looking.

"Actually," Wiggins interrupted, "I would like this young man to accompany me as I take my tour. Mr. Green, was it?"  
George nodded dumbly.

"Come then, let's walk. And bring that boomerang with you."

Wiggins took off at a startling pace and George had to take two steps to every one of his. The boomerang was clutched tightly in his hand now, like a lifeline. Maybe if he held on tight enough, he'd realize that he _was_ walking next to his father and that this wasn't some fever dream induced by last night's bottle of whiskey.

"What's your full name?" Wiggin asked as they rounded the conveyer belts and headed towards the stairs that lead up to the walkway that circled above the factory.

"George Ha…Green. George Green, sir."

"George Green, huh? I've always enjoyed alliteration in names, my own being a prime example."

He gave a booming laugh and George nervously joined in.

"I recognize that accent. Did you grow up in Victoria?"

"Yes sir, I did."

"Good. Good."

They ascended the stairs in silence. Wiggins seemed to be thinking because he'd occasionally tut or give George an odd sideways look.

Eventually he spoke. "That was an impressive trick you pulled off down there. Normally, I would have you fired for not adhering to company safety rules."

"I'm sorry, sir." George's mind panicked and words started spewing from his mouth. "I shouldn't have done what I did – it's just that I grew up designing and playing with boomerangs and since I came to Central City I haven't been using them and I promise that it'll never happen again –"

Wiggins held up a hand and George was instantly silenced. "I was _going_ to say that I'll have to make an exception in this case."

"Oh."

"Of course, I can always fire you, if that's what you want."

"No. No sir. Thank you."

A loud clunk came from beneath them, followed by several cheers as the conveyer belts began moving again.  
"How long have you been in American, Mr. Green?" Wiggins asked, resting his forearms against the railing. He was so tall that he practically became a hunchback to reach the railing.

"One year to the day."

"Hm. I always tell my employees that without every one of them, nothing would get done and this company would fall apart. I value my workers highly, especially my factory workers. But, there are more important jobs. Higher paying ones, too. What did you do back in Australia, George?"

"I was an asset relocation specialist, sir."

"Really? Well, I would like to offer you a new job within my company. I expect great things to come out of the BOOM!-a-rang, but my promotional department has not been able to come up with an adequate way of promoting this product. I would like you to do it."

George glanced down at the small toy in his hand. He could already imagine the different additions and styles he could make from this basic design. He may have stopped using his boomerangs, but he'd never stopped designing them. He'd already filled five new journals in the past year.

George could barely believe his good luck, but he never believed in luck. Not since that last night in Australia.

"What would this job entail exactly?"

"This product is going to be sold country-wide. I plan on having one in the hand of every child by the end the summer. This is going to be the 'it' toy. I want every child saving up their allowance to purchase one, and every grandparent buying one for their grandchild's birthday. And, after seeing what you can do today, you've inspired me to come up with the perfect promotional scheme. You," he pointed one manicured nail towards George, "are going to be travelling across the country, putting on performances and showing the kids exactly what they'll be able to do when they purchase my product."

It took George a moment to realize what Wiggins was proposing. "You want me to put on shows?"

"All expenses paid for, of course. I'll send someone from the promotional team with you, and maybe one of our designers. An announcer, as well. Maybe a TV crew. All we need now is a name."

"Uh…" Wiggins had lost George. Everything felt so surreal. He could feel the grease under his fingernails and the whiskey in the back of his throat. Everything else didn't seem real. It was all moving too fast.

"I was thinking something patriotic. I was in the army as a young man. A Captain. I always liked the sound of that. Captain. So, what do you think?"

"About what?"

"About the name Captain Boomerang?"

* * *

George walked offstage, the yells and screams of excited children still ringing in his ears. Even backstage, he could feel the creaky floorboards shaking as the kids stomped past the small canvas tent that they'd set up just that morning. Ever since he'd started putting on these shows, George had found the winning personality combination that most appealed to the kids watching him – arrogance mixed with daredevil nonchalance. It was a part of his personality that he hadn't paid much attention to before. But now that he was, George found that it liked it.

They'd been traveling for over three months now. After the first few shows in the small towns surrounding Central City, they'd hooked up with a circus that was doing a similar circuit to what the BOOM!-a-rang's promotional team had plotted out. George and his group of designers and repairmen and promotional guru's had finally finished zigzagging their way across the eastern coast and were now heading for the larger states. After this show, they were heading to Montana.  
George made his way through the tent, dodging around tables and hurrying crew. A few gave him a quick nod or a muttered, "Good show, Boomer."

A small section of the tent had ben cordoned off and George had drawn a crude boomerang on the canvas sheet that separated his quarters from the rest of the tent. Whenever they stopped in larger towns, he'd stay in a hotel, but when they were on the road, George was stuck in a small little section of the larger tent. Whenever he did stay in a hotel, it was five stars and the room service was excellent, but George had never minded being out in nature. In fact, he preferred it. Being stuck inside a hotel room for too long made him tetchy. He always needed to be moving – doing something. These performances helped distract him.

Wiggins had made sure that George stayed busy. Before leaving, Wiggins had pulled George aside and asked him if there was anything that he wanted for the trip – anything extra to keep him entertained. George couldn't really think of anything, so when Wiggins offered to enroll him in some online college courses, George had agreed. He'd been enjoying them, surprisingly. He'd just finished reading several books on the earliest philosophers.

George found the idea of him taking college courses rather funny. He'd never even gotten his high school diploma.  
His laptop sat at the foot of his bed and George sat himself down next to it, rubbing his forearms. Since they'd gone on the road, his muscles were beginning to harden and grow. He'd starting lifting weights again so that he wouldn't tire himself out during the shows.

"Oi, Boomer. I'm coming in," a voice said from the other side of the cloth as it was pulled back with sudden force. Bruce Gellway, their travel coordinator, was standing in front of George. "We're packing up early and heading to Helena tomorrow, but Mr. Wiggins wants you there tonight. He's booked a hotel and there's a car waiting outside. Pack some clothes and boomerangs and we'll take the rest tomorrow."

"Ok," George said.

He waited for Bruce to leave before he pulled out a small rucksack and flipped it open. The first thing he packed was Pinky.

* * *

The hotel was the largest one he'd stayed in. A bagboy had carried his rucksack as they'd travelled the twenty three stories up to his hotel room, then left him with an envelope. The suite was spacious and dotted with various recliners. A door led to the bedroom and another led to the bathroom. George immediately got into the shower, enjoying the sensation of hot water running down his skin. It'd been ages since his last real shower.

He rubbed his hair dry and padded across the soft velveteen carpet to one of the chairs. George passed a shelf piled high with booze, so he grabbed himself a tumbler of scotch on his way. He stretched out on the chair and propped his feet up on an ottoman, ankles crossed. With one nail, he ripped open the envelope the bagboy had left.

Inside was a single sheet of thick white stationary inviting him to a formal dinner at the Ainsley Dining Hall at seven o'clock sharp. George was certain that the bagboy had mistaken him for someone else until he saw his name drawn in black ink at the top of the invitation. He shook the envelope, and a small slip of paper fell out onto his lap. It was a note scrawled in Wiggins tidy writing. He wanted George to join him at the dinner because of all the progress he'd been making and that there would be several important sponsors present and he wanted George to be able to make new contacts. Wiggins also suggested that George perhaps bring a few boomerangs alone. He finished by thanking George for all his good work and telling him that a car would be waiting at the hotel to pick him up at 6:20.

So, when the time came, George got into a company car in a newly pressed suit, and dropped the rucksack between his feet. He'd had to bribe one of the hotel employees to go out and purchase the suit. Inside the car, his nostrils filled with the scent of new leather and smoke. Not wanting to smell like cigars at the dinner, George cracked a window and watched the buildings whip past as the driver swerved around corners.

When George stepped out of the car, he had to disagree with the label 'Dining Hall'. The building in front of him looked more like a small palace or mansion. Columns of pure white marble lined a veranda that led towards the front door, which was a wooden giant outlined by crystal glass that revealed distorted light so that the bright colours from inside the hall shone outward. The entire building almost seemed to emitting light.

Standing on the sidewalk, George could feel warmth on his face like soft fingers. He began walking forward, along the veranda. He let one hand gently slide along the railing, revelling in the smoothness of the polished wood.

As he approached, George realized that he didn't feel out of place. Throughout the entire time that he'd been travelling the country performing, he'd felt as though he were standing on the edge of something without actually be able to step into the daylight. But here - dressed in a newly-purchase suit, surrounded by beautiful architecture with the Montana sun warming his face – he felt like he belonged. George could see himself living here, walking down this carpet every day.  
George stopped in front of the crystalline doors, where a doorman pulled it open for him, revealing the inside of the glorious hall. It was more spectacular than any bank he had ever robbed. He stopped at a reception, where a concierge offered to take his coat, bag and any valuables. He handed over the rucksack and invitation and continued on.

As he stepped into the hall, George immediately began eyeing the security guards that attempted to blend in with the crowd. But, their perfect posture, guarded eyes and concealed weapons gave them away almost instantly. One of the guards glanced towards him, and George froze, his breath stalling. The guard looked past him and George could breathe again. For a moment, years of instinct had kicked in and he was certain that the guard was going to pull out a gun and arrest him.

Maybe this place wasn't as perfect as he'd thought.

George moved through the room, feeling oddly grungy as he took in the beautiful women dressed in satin gowns on the arms of handsome men. Expensive jewelry glittered on the fingers and ears of the women. George's eye was caught by the expensive Rolex's and silver cufflinks the men wore. George situated himself at the edge of the hall by a window, letting the sun warm the back of his neck.

A short black-haired woman with surprisingly long legs sauntered towards him, giving George an appreciative eye as she passed. George couldn't help winking back at her, making a blush rise to her cheeks, before she practically threw herself into conversation with an elderly man standing next to her.

"Her father's the head of a very influential company in Japan," a voice to George's left said.

"Oh, Mr. Wiggins, I didn't see you. Thank you for inviting me – this isn't something I ever thought I'd be able to experience."

"I'm glad you were able to make it, Mr. Green." He tossed an arm around George's shoulder, making something in George's chest tighten oddly. "Now that you're here, I'd like to ask you to put on a presentation for the guests here today. Perhaps during the dinner?"  
"

Uh…" George looked down, suddenly shy. "All of my tools and my performance case are still back with the rest of the troop."

Wiggin's waved a dismissing hand, pulling George along as he strode through the hall. "Come, meet my partners. This," they stopped in front of a dark skinned man with impeccable hair, "is the supplier of several of our best units, Mr. Jarrent."  
After that, George was presented to a seemingly unending sequence of powerful men and women, all of whom smiled sweetly and discussed topics that flew right over George's head. George was waiting for a moment to escape and approach the dark-haired woman, but Wiggins never gave him a chance. The persona he'd cultivated onstage took over and George was able to let his mind wander. He eventually began fanaticising about lying on an isolated island, having that woman rubbing sunscreen on his back, clad in nothing at all.

After a while, George found himself standing on the edge of the group, separated from Wiggins as more people pressed forward to talk to him. Once again, George felt like he was standing on the edge of something important, but was not able to step into the light. He stood there for a moment, engaging in inane conversation with the few people standing around him. George's attention snapped towards Wiggins as he heard his name. Excusing himself, he pushed his way through the crowd to see Wiggins speaking to a man about George's age.

"Yes, Green has been a great help with the promotion. I think your suggestion for him to put on a show tonight will give our sponsors here a perfect taste of the direction we'll be taking the company over the next few years."  
The young man caught George's eye and smiled, revealing perfect teeth. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Green. I'm Terrance Falkoner – I work for William's company."

Wiggin's clapped Falkoner on the shoulder, "My boy, you don't work for me, but _with_ me." He addressed George. "Terrance here is one of the brightest minds I've discovered in a while, and he's moving his way up the company. Soon, he'll be working as my partner, I'm sure. We'll be working to bring this company to new heights! Even last night, he presented me with some innovative ideas."

Falkoner flashed those teeth again, and George felt oddly sick to his stomach. Several of the well-dressed ladies cooed over Falkoner's impressive credentials as Wiggin's made sure to introduce him to everyone present, one arm slung across his shoulders. Wiggin's moved his way through the crowd, moving further away from George and once again, he found himself left alone.

This palace of light and promise suddenly felt oppressive, like a weight was trying to grind George into the ground. As he watched Wiggin's parade Falkoner around the dining hall, George felt an angry heat spread from his chest and blood pounded in his ears. George violently shrugged off the hand of a woman, and stomped away from the crowd, almost knocking a waiter over. He pulled open a door next to the small stage, and slammed it behind him, ignoring the startled looks from the help bustling around on the other side.

"Um, excuse me, are you Mr. Green?" a timid looking waiter addressed him.

"What about it?"

The waiter turned green under George's scowl. "There's a room with your things, if you're ready for your performance." The waiter pointed towards an indistinct door, then quickly scurried away.

George stalked into the room, giving the small cramped space a dark look. His rucksack sat in the center of the room, and George gave it a vicious kick. The rucksack fell open, and several items went skidding across the floor. Pinkie tumbled out, its unicorn's horn bending crookedly. George fell to his knees, and cradled Pinkie to his chest as he straightened its horn. A voice came from behind him. "George, the performance won't be for another hour. There's no need to prepare yet."  
George turned, facing Wiggins, who's massive built filled the doorway. As Wiggins eyes fell on the toy in George's hands, his smile disappeared and his eyes widened. For the first time, George saw Wiggins speechless. His eyes bounced from Pinkie back to George and down again. They stood frozen for a moment.

"Where…" Wiggin's voice was strained, "Where did you get that?"

George hastily stuffed Pinkie back into the rucksack. "It's nothing, just something my mum gave me."  
Wiggins took a few steps forward, and when George straightened, he was uncomfortably close, examining George's face. He scrutinized George for a moment, his face ashen. The bags under his eyes were stark against his pale skin.  
Wiggins eventually stepped back, letting out a deep breath. "You look like her."

Wiggin' sudden change of demeanour shook George, and he didn't quite understand what was going on. "Look like who?"

"Betty. Betty Harkness. I won that toy for her at a carnival on our first date. After I left Victoria, I never thought I'd see it again. She is your mother, isn't she?"

George nodded, afraid to speak.

Wiggins rested a calming hand on George's shoulder. His face was regaining its colour, as the shock passed. "You may not know this, son" – George's heart ached – "but I knew your mother. How is she? It's been, gosh, maybe 20 years since I last saw her."

The black cloud that had weighted down George's shoulders lifted slightly. "She's still living in Victoria. She's a nurse now. I…uh…haven't spoken to her for a while though."

"Yes, well, it's difficult to keep in touch with anyone while on the road. I suppose she's married now. Is Green your father's last name?"

George swallowed, his throat suddenly clogged. "Uh, no. My father…his last name isn't Green. I changed it when I came to American."

Wiggins eyes narrowed and his gaze flicked up and down George's body. His grip on George's shoulder was becoming uncomfortably tight. "How old are you, George? Twenty?"

George tried to shrug off Wiggin's hand, but it wouldn't move. "I'm almost twenty-one."

Wiggins grip was a vice, his fingernails digging into George's shoulder.

"My mum…she said that…" George cleared his throat. "Mr. Wiggins, you're my father."

Wiggins released George with such force that he stumbled backwards.

He raised a hand, keeping George at bay. "You are not my son."

"No, it's true! My mom told me about how you were a visiting solider in Korumburra, how you met when she was volunteering at a first aid station because you'd accidentally hurt yourself on a retreat. She even told me about the bamboo tattoo you have on your calf."

"Alright, that's enough." Wiggins jabbed a finger into George's chest. "The performance is cancelled. I don't care for your accusations, and even if what you say is true, you have no proof. I want you out of here right now. Wait outside and a cab will come pick you up. You're leaving."

Rage flared in George chest and he stepped towards the retreating Wiggins. "I'm your son!" Tears prickled at the edges of his vision. "You can't just throw me out!"

"You are NOT my son!" Wiggins bellowed, spinning around.

As he did so, his fist came around and smashed into George's face. He stumbled, falling to one knee. Pain radiated from gums and blood filled his mouth. George spat the blood out and something small and white landed on the ground. It was a tooth.

Wiggins loomed over the fallen George. "Leave this hall now or I shall have you escorted out."

George nodded, unable to meet Wiggin's eyes. He heard his father walk towards the door. The door opened and Wiggins left.

As he stormed out, George heard him mutter, "You know what they say about the crazy ones…"  
When Wiggins footsteps disappeared, George reached down and picked the tooth out of the puddle of blood in a daze. His mouth was throbbing, but it felt dull and distant. There was a ringing in his ears that had nothing to do with his injury. His father had hit him.

His father had _hit_ him!

Rage exploded in his chest. In a flurry of motion, George dropped his tooth and pulled several of his boomerangs from the rucksack. He checked that Pinkie was safely inside, then tossed the bag over his shoulder and left the room. He strode through the corridors that surrounded the main dining hall. The few waiters that saw him scurried out of his way. As he walked, his mind was buzzing.

Mike was gone. Iris was dead. He'd left his mother married to that douchebag. He didn't have anyone. He was alone.

George yelled, letting out all of his anger and grief, and threw a boomerang that shattered the lights as it swept down the corridor. Now, he strode down the darkened hallway, catching the boomerang as it returned. He exited the corridor and stopped as he caught sight of the concierge. Behind him was a locked door, where he must have stored everyone's valuables. The concierge looked up as George approached, but wasn't able to react in time before George smacked him over the head with the metal boomerang. The concierge fell.

George crouched in front of the locked door, and pulled a lock pick from within his sock. Back in Central City, he may have kept his boomerangs at home, but he always kept a little lock-pick kit on him, just in case. He broke through the locked door in less than a minute. Inside the small room were shelves stocked with purses and suitcases. George zoomed in on the ones that were the highest quality and took what he wanted.

When George left Ainsley Dining Hall, his pockets were weighted down with jewelry, cash, pocket watches and credit cards. The sun had set but no stars shone in the summer sky. George took a deep breath as he strolled down the dark streets. Once he was far enough away from the Hall, George broke into a nearby car and started it up. The car thrummed down the road, street lights flashing past. He hummed a little tune to himself – an Australian lullaby that he used to sing to Iris.  
When George reached the interstate, he paused, then chose a random direction. He turned on the radio and shifted through the channels as he drove down the abandoned highway. George stopped on a channel that he used to listen to back in Central City. A radio announcer's voice boomed through the car, discussing a diamond exhibition being held in Central City a week from today.

George grinned, revealing bloody teeth and a missing incisor. With a screech of tires, he turned the car around and headed back towards Central City. After all, a thief should be familiar with the terrain of his next heist.

* * *

 **I don't have any ideas for which character to write about next, so please review and let me know which character you want to read about next! It'll give me motivation to post the chapter sooner!**


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